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BY 


L. M. ELSHEMUS, 

I 

Author of “ The Moods of a Soul,” “ Songs of 
Spring,” “Lady Vere,” “Mammon,” 

“A Triple Flirtation,” etc., etc. 


THE 


Hbhcy press 


Condoh 


PUBLISHERS 

114 

FIFTH AVENUE 

NEW YORK 

V- 


montrcal 



381 


L.ib»*»iry of Coagresa 
Iwo Rt^TWCD 

JAN 8 1901 

Copyright 

■L^. 2.7, /f CO 

SECOND COPY 

Oellv^rad to 

ORDER DIVISION 
m 18 1301 


£3HS‘/ 

SuJ^ 


Copyright, 1900, 
by 

THE 

Jibbcy press 








L. M. ELSHEMUS, 


BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE. 

Mr. Louis M. Elshemus, the author of this book, was 
born in 1864, in New Jersey, at “Laurel HillJ' near 
Newark. After receiving his education at various 
schools in this country and abroad he entered Cornell 
University in 1882. His strong desire to study Art 
inspired him to leave the University in his senior year 
in 1885. After devoting some time at the Academy of 
Design and at the Art League, he put in two years at 
Julian's Academy at Paris, France. From 1888 he took 
a studio in New York and, since that time, has steadily 
made himself a reputable name in landscape and figure 
painting; exhibiting at most of the annual exhibitions 
in various cities of the United States, and also abroad. 
His literary career began when he was nineteen, his 
efforts being metrical at first — and only recently he has 
taken to prose-writing. Mr. Elshemus is also a musi- 
cal composer, having published “Six Musical Moods, 
that have been well received by the press. He is a fair 
linguist, and has traveled extensively in the United 
States, in Europe, Africa, and England. 

THE PUBLISHERS. 



Other Books by the Se^me Author 


1. THE MOODS OF A SOUL; Being a Collection of Lyrics, 

Ballads and Sonnets. 

f 

2 . “SONGS OF SPRING.” A Volume of Poems. 

3. “ LADY VERB,” AND OTHER NARRATIVES. Con- 

tains two long modern idyls in blank verse ; one 
long rhymed story of East-lndian pastoral life ; and a 
few odes, sonnets, and fugitive poems. 

4. MAMMON: A Spirit-Song. A Dramatic Poem. 


5. “ A TRIPLE FLIRTATION ” and Other Stories. Illus- 

trated by the author. 



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ILLUSTRATIOMS 


Sawkill-Falls, Pa., . . . , 

“From Here an Extensive View on 
THE River,” .... 

Nattie and Nancy, .... 

Mrs. Eaton’s Estate, 

A River View, 

“Nattie Leaning Against a Tree,” 

“By Reading to Him Aloud,” 

“There is Music Down the River,” 

“She was Quite a Player on the 
Guitar,” 


Frontispiece 


Facing page 39 

“ “ 57 

“ “ 85 

“ “ 95 

“ “ 121 


137 

189 


y 


209 



CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER I. PAGK 

A Musician-Poet, Randolph Shendon, Arrives at a 
Hotel of which He Proves to be the Sole Guest 
— He Discovers that the Proprietor’s Daughter 
Compensates fully for the Absence of Guests.. 7 

CHAPTER II. 

Showing that when a Man and a Woman Are Left 
to Themselves, and They Are Good-hearted, the 
Man inevitably Thinks of Winning a Kiss.... 17 

CHAPTER HI. 

The Musician-Poet Fares Well during His Second 
Day — Versifying, Working — Enjoying a Vil- 
lage-show at Night, and Winning the Kisses of 
the Dainty Mistress 51 

CHAPTER IV. 

Incidentally Describing How in These Modern Days 
Some High-strung Souls Are Happy in Nature, 
as the Greeks of Old 71 

CHAPTER V. 

Life is Not All Roses and Virtue; Rather, the 
Shadows are ever Conspicuous — Our Pristine 
Instincts Can Never Die Out, however Spirit- 
ual We Try to Be 89 


Contents. 


CHAPTER VI. PAas- 

In which the Musician-Poet Imbibes Poetry from 
the Woodland Nooks — And Makes Friendship 
with an Artist loy 

CHAPTER VII. 

The Hotel Fills; Randolph Scrutinizes the Newly- 
arrived Guests and Finds a Fair, Blonde Girl 
to his Liking. 131 

CHAPTER VIII. 

In which Randolph Figures as an Actor and Scores 
a Success 157 

CHAPTER IX. 

Treats of Music, Its Charms and Limitations; also 
Introduces Randolph as a Mesmerist i8l 

CHAPTER X. 

Love is Prejudiced in Regard to the Family — Sweet- 
brier Confesses her Love, just as Randolph’s 
Mind is Aware that a Union with her would 
not Suit his Tastes 199 

CHAPTER XL 

An Unexpected Occurrence Takes Place, which 
Parts the Two Lovers — Sweetbrier Remains in 
her Village, while Randolph Leaves for a New 
Life in the World at Large..: 2ig^ 

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I 


SAWKILL-FALLS, PA 




CHAPTER THE FIRST 


A Musician-Poet, Randolph Shendon, Arrives at a 
Hotel of which . He Proves to be the Sole Guest 
— He Discovers that the Proprietor’s Daughter 
Compensates fully f >r the Absence of Guests. 




SWEETBRIER 


CHAPTER 1. 

A Musician-Poet, Randolph Shendon, Arrives at a Hotel 
of which He Proves to be the Sole Guest — He Dis- 
covers that the Proprietor’s Daughter Compensates 
fully for the Absence of Guests. 

A BORN musician, his temperament was vision^ 
ary, and his fancies were ever floating in a mist oi 
songs. His heart had the Vesuvius-character 
once — yet his susceptibility to love and the various 
minor emotions indigenous to that electrical air 
had still their flexible hold upon him. Hence it 
was natural that the soft glances from the many 
Eves had power over his sentimental nature. 
Besides being a musician, he had a peculiar ten- 
dency to be freaky; and whenever decision was 
made to start for a vacation- journey, the hurry 
with which he despatched his departure was fatal 
to his pleasure; for he chose the early months, 
7 


Sweetbrier, 


and when he arrived at the resort in mountain 
or plain, the utter desolation of the place made 
him aware that his precipitancy caused him to 
be the first boarder, and hence a bore to himself 
and to the solitary wilds of the neighborhood. 
Yet at an unprecedented occasion this was 
false; and his experience of that time he with 
some hesitancy revealed to me, who will try to 
make it palatable for others. 

Randolph had been travelling through the 
European countries — and his course at the Paris 
Conservatory, besides cultivating his music, had 
also widened his knowledge of life in its various 
phases. He was equipped with musical theory — 
and this made him strong in improvising;, on 
many occasions his fugitive tunes created many 
a laudatory remark from his listeners. 

He chose a quiet, out-of-the-way village in the 
heart of Pennsylvania, upon a bluff that rose 
from the Delaware River. The streets were 
mathematically laid out, and elms and other um- 
brageous trees enhanced their charms, so that on 
very hot summer days the coolness gave the vil- 
lage a desirability that brought hundreds of sum- 
merers within its pale. 

It was on the first of June, in the near past, 
that he left the city. As was his fate through 

S 


Sweetbikf* 


life, the train he was on was obliged to experi- 
ence a wreck of some sort — or a delay; he had 
expected to arrive in time for supper — ^but a 
wrecked engine, the victim of the strikers, was 
the cause that the stage had to wait two entire 
hours for the passengers. Randolph had been 
accustomed to quiet his excitability by resorting 
to the bluey companionship of a cigar — so on 
entering the stage, he lit one, which afforded him 
company while on the lonely road and a five- 
miles' drive to the village of his destination. 

As he was the only passenger, the conversa- 
tion was a dialogue between the driver and him- 
self. 

“Quite a chilly evening, this?" 

“Unusually so! How many guests are stop- 
ping at the 'Laurel-Bush'?" 

“There were two ladies yesterday — ^but they 
have left this morning. You will be the only 
one there I" 

With an inward curse at his ill-luck, Randolph 
puffed wildly at his Henry Clay, while the stage 
rattled its clumsy wheels over the uneven road, 
and the driver drove life into the two roans by 
the snapping of his unsleek whip. 

The road followed the hill’s verdurous feet, 
and the river’s winding glare, now and then lost 
9 


SwcctbMefi 


to view by some sombre brake, was ever to Ran'- 
dolph’s left side. The stars began to shine — • 
and early fireflies were flickering here and there 
through the elm-groves that seemed like fore- 
boding giants, dark of dress, in the dreamy calm 
of the vale. 

It was like entering a “city disinterred,’^ 
when the stage rumbled past the first houses of 
the village, apparently devoid of every vestige of 
animation. A few of the houses had evil yel- 
low flares of light — but the majority of them 
seemed like log huts, in which the ghosts of 
merry campers lay dead. It was a drear arri- 
val; and when Randolph stepped down upom 
the ground in front of the hotel — the darkness 
around, and one solitary light in the hall of the 
pallid country structure almost appalled him — 
he was wild from disappointment. However, 
with a brave mind, he addressed the proprietor,, 
who at once showed him several rooms, for him. 
to choose. It was late — almost nine p. m. ; his 
appetite had grown very keen during the drive 
in the fresh night air, and the second request was . 
for his supper. 

The dining-room was reasonably large, and 
the many tables were proof that the proprietor 
was in the habit of lodging a profitable number. 

to 


Swcctbficft 


of guests. This abated his wind of discontent — 
but when he walked toward the table set and 
assigned for him — the sole boarder — its cheer- 
lessness, and the only dimly burning lamp shed- 
ding an imperfect glamor not farther than the 
edges of the scantily furnished table (thus in- 
creasing the darkness of the long room), his 
unconsolable disappointment swelled up the 
wind to terrific hurricanes. Hence he let himself 
fall upon the chair. The ravenousness of his' 
appetite had to be satisfied with a meagre meal — 
and his eyes stared into the pitch of his immedi- 
ate surroundings; still, his fancy conjured up the 
exploits of Don Quixote and Randolph imagined 
he saw fine ladies walking in the obscurity, and 
that they gazed at him very prettily. 

While he was apportioning the contents of an 
egg-shell to his hungry system, all of a sudden 
a black-robed young figure entered the door at the 
other end of the room. It directed its steps to 
the table — drew a chair away from the tablecloth 
— then Randolph took a quick glance at this um 
expected guest; and he beheld a young, deter- 
mined face peeping out from a sinister robe of 
black. It was a young girl. She ate sparingly, 
and never deigned to return Randolph’s quizzi- 
cal look. Randolph lingered over the plates, and 

n 


Sweetbricf* 


feigned to devour the bread and butter; but his 
eyes were severely engaged studying the pretty 
face. He tried to conjecture who she could be. 
If she were the only guest, Randolph thought he 
could bear the solitude with such company to en- 
liven it. He planned how he could derive many 
ways of pleasure from her society and congratu- 
lated himself upon his fatality’s rosiness — and he 
forgot all about his swearing, on entering the 
dining-room half an hour ago. 

He had entered upon the bulletin of his mind 
the satisfactory picture of the new guest, and 
her pretty features — a small nose, a cunning 
mouth, and laughing, evasive eyes — and a 
moderate abundance of brown hair — were 
already forcibly imprinted, while her slight and 
delicate figure, draped in a riding-habit, worked 
on his fancy most delightfully. She was to his 
liking. 

Still she would not flatter him by making his 
presence food for her eyes. Propriety forbade 
him to address her, and good breeding told him to 
withdraw before she had finished her repast. 
So Randolph stood up — and left the gloomy 
saloon, without knowing who she was or having 
succeeded in starting a conversation. 

If the room he had just left had seemed to him 

i2 


Sweetbfief. 


a fit apartment for some of Don Quixote’s night-^ 
mare-experiences, the utter desolateness of the 
hallway, and, as he walked on the verandah, the 
tingling silence of night, were more than dreary ; 
yet, with the new image in his mind, he could 
easily fill the darkness and solitude with pros- 
pects of the young girl’s company, and with 
dreams of its eventual happenings. 

Randolph peered many a time into the hall to 
catch a glimpse of the black-robed girl ; but half- 
past ten showed him a servant who began ex- 
tinguishing the lamps, and Randolph was com- 
pelled to retire without again finding an oppor- 
tunity to analyze her features or to annotate on 
the margin of his memory her physical charms. 








CHAPTER THE SECOND 


Showing that when a Man and a Woman are Lett 
to Themselves, and They are Good-hearted, the 
Man Inevitably Thinks of Winning a Kiss. 





Swectbricr. 


CHAPTER II. 

Showing that when a Man and a Woman Are Left to 
Themselves, and They Are Good-hearted, the Man 
inevitably Thinks of Winning a Kiss. 

When the sun burst in at the eastward-looking 
window of Randolph's rather narrow room, the 
birds’ jubilee was not loud enough to awaken 
him. He was dreaming many an exquisite 
dream yet; the young face had more than once 
peered in at the door of his fancy’s hall — and 
when the dream-goddess showed him a moment’s 
opportunity to be with her alone, he kissed her 
passionately. Hence, when he awoke, he did 
not welcome the morning hours, but with a deter- 
mined impulse, shut his eyes again, so as to re- 
trace those ambrosial paths that led him within 
lip-nearness of his new fairy. Such privilege 
was brief — since, a few minutes later, Randolph 
was aroused from his dozing by a loud-sounding 
bell, which startled him, and had powerful effect 
to take him from the bed to the duties of dressing. 

The boarding-house custom prevailed at the 

t7 


Sweetbrkf* 


hotel. Randolph knew he had half an hour yet 
before the next bell, summoning to breakfast,- 
would ring. He was a fast dresser. Musicians- 
have not the head to think much about fashion’s 
paraphernalia. Simplicity with them is their 
habit. So Randolph had some minutes’ time to 
look out of the window, and admire the glowing 
mountains in the distance — some residences, 
picturesquely surrounded by trees and flowers — 
and, near by, to see the sunbeams dance in 
amongst the leaves of a row of maples that 
shaded the road parallel to the length of the 
hotel. 

His thoughts were sanguine of a day’s novel 
adventures. He mused — and he heard distinctly 
the insects ticking in the foliage — the flutter of a 
catbird — the rustle of some dead leaves as the 
morning breeze sped by him like a breath in some 
haunted room. It was a glorious June morning, 
and all nature seemed teeming with satisfaction,, 
ready to shrive with nectarine ablutions for all 
the evil underneath the splendorous mask of 
light and efflorescence. 

Again the megalophonous bell rang. With ex- 
pectant heart Randolph walked through the nar- 
row hall to the stairs, descended, and entered the 


Swcetbfier. 


dining-room. As before, he was the only one 
present. The waitress was smiling. 

'‘Who is the young lady that ate at my table 
last night?” he questioned her. 

“She’s the daughter of Mr. Briggs, sir !” And 
Randolph’s mind was clearer. 

“No one else is at the hotel, is there?” 

“You are the only one here, sir!” the waitress 
answered. 

Randolph immediately began ruminating. He 
the only young man present, and she the daugh- 
ter of the proprietor — it was easy sailing — and 
that dualitude would be only favorable to his de- 
sires. He ate more vigorously — and was content 
that flirtation was not necessary — but mere 
politeness between guest and host would serve as 
introduction. He drank down the glass of milk 
with a self-contented gusto, and wiped off the 
cream clinging to his lips, while a smile of 
triumph suffused his cheeks and kindled his ob- 
servant, yet dreamy eyes. It was morning in his 
mind — and the soft heat that came in through the 
green shutters pervaded him — he was exultant — 
and why not so? His musical disposition was 
ever alert for new inspirations — and here he 
found one — sweet as song, and perfect as poetry. 

When he had reached the door leading to the 

t9 


Sweetbrief* 


verandah, he halted, and with a measured step, 
and looking about him, he emerged somewhat 
detective-like, from the hall upon the piazza. 
To his surprise he saw the black-robed figure of 
the previous evening; but how astonished were 
his eyes, when they were almost dazzled by the 
change in her appearance — a loose, airy, white 
and rose-spotted simple dress adorned the slight 
body of the young lady, whose rosy face beamed 
with radiant innocence, and spring-like youth ir- 
radiated from her dreamy eyes. Her hair was 
abundant, and was tucked up on the back of her 
head most unpremeditatively — in short, she was a 
dream of delightful maidenhood, and of that 
charm which is the amalgamation of the pretti- 
ness of a Juliet, with the simplicity of a Gretchen. 

Randolph only glanced at her, while he ad- 
vanced towards the wide steps (four of them 
descending down to the carriage-road), on whose 
brink he stopped and, with an air of a much- 
travelled man, he looked about him. He noticed 
the maple trees in front of him — then he turned 
to his left, where the white pillars of the veran- 
dah led his eyes to a blooming rose bud, caress- 
ing the closely-set white posts of a fence, that en- 
closed the hotel garden ; farther on, the bluff 
dropped suddenly — and below, the blue river 

20 


Sweetbrier. 


:glided southwards; while on the opposite shore 
wheat-fields lay in their virescence, and near the 
foot of the hills farm houses reclined in the 
wooded niches; the summit of these lower up- 
heavals of earth were dark with pine-woods, and 
before the sky was to be seen, the blue of moun- 
tains indicated that many miles away the country 
must be wild and uninhabited. Randolph put 
this in his mind; then his head turned about to 
the west. He saw the carriage-road run away 
into a jungle of foliage — and, nearer, one or two 
residences, on either side, told that the outskirts 
of the village ended at the hotel, and that the 
general character of the streets must be very 
shady and countrified. Then his eyes looked to 
the south again — and he observed that large 
cherry trees stood along a fence — a barrier to en- 
ter a sweep of grass — which belonged to a cot- 
tage near by; farther on, a house took away a 
liberal view upon trees, and, more above, on 
spurs of the high bluffs. 

Randolph was satisfied; so he lit a cigarette. 
At this moment he heard a timid voice back of 
him : 

“Your train was belated last night. We had 
-expected you sooner, Mr. Shendfon.” 


21 


Sweetbfief^ 


This was like a rose-shower on his mind. He 
turned, and at once became friendly. 

‘‘So I was.” Then he introduced himself — 
and herself to himself in a peculiar way. 

“You are Miss Briggs, I believe. I am de- 
lighted to have found such a charming person 
here. When I arrived, I thought I was the only 
one — ^but now I am perfectly contented. What 
are you embroidering?” and Randolph drew 
close up to her, and admired the simple stitching 
of a very modest design. 

“A present Tm to give to the church-fair next 
month. I hope you’ll stay long enough to come 
with us,” she said, with sincerity in her tender 
voice, and a sudden sparkle in her eye that saw 
all the future glow and glitter. 

“How generous girls are, to work so much for 
churches. We men are more selfish, after all — 
we never think of it.” 

“Well, men have other things to do!” Miss 
Briggs retorted in a rather huffy way, as though 
she were thinking of some past answer she had 
given to another man of less attractive appear- 
ance than Randolph showed. 

“You are right. Those things are not for 
men’s sphere. We prefer to be selfish, I know. 
Yet man was so from the outset — and you re- 

22 


SweetbHer* 


member, woman was made the opposite of him — 
she has all the devotional properties/' 

Randolph saw that he was entangling things 
— so he stopped his perambulations, and started 
direct for sundry facts of local interest. 

“Where is a nice walk in the neighborhood. 
Miss Briggs? I wonder if the strawberries are 
ripe up here ?” 

“We have many lovely walks, Mr. Shendon. 
When I have time, I shall show you around. 
Let me see — " and she stopped her embroidery, 
and placed the needle upon her seductive lips, 
cherry-red and pleading for a kiss. “To-mor- 
row I'll have an afternoon of leisure. You see, 
father has a few rooms to furnish, and I must 
superintend, since I am to be the housekeeper 
this year." 

This confession, though it amused Randolph, 
made him impugn the truth of it; because Miss 
Briggs could not be more than eighteen years of 
age, and to an enamored eye she was indeed not 
more than blooming in the blushing season of 
sixteen, nearing seventeen. So Randolph must 
have changed his expression, for Miss Briggs 
continued : 

“I know it must seem strange to you. I 
never had thought of taking that responsibility 

23 


Sweetbrief. 


before papa asked me. He has had such 
bad experiences with housekeepers, that he has 
determined to do without any. You know, they 
are so independent — and papa has quarrels with 
them. Just a week ago we had one here; but 
she acted in such a way that papa dismissed her 
two days after. I am willing to do the superin- 
tending — since papa and mamma wish it,’' and 
she said these last words with a gentle determina- 
tion which was unusual to Randolph — how dear 
it was to see this simple, country-reared girl so 
devoted a child to her father and mother. It 
was a charming trait in her character ; and Ran- 
dolph became more interested — here was a girl 
worth analyzing and worth knowing. 

“You are a dutiful daughter. Miss Briggs,, 
and I hope you will not have too much trouble 
with guests and rooms.” 

“No fear of that. I’ll arrange things to suit 
myself,” she answered, with an independent air, 
which diluted Randolph’s admiration for her,. 
Here was an exposure of her nature which did 
not meet with favor in his mind. However, 
he forgot it as soon as she burst out laughing: 

“Just think — once the housekeeper took all 
the salt away; and at another time some of the 
towels were missing. And papa paid her a large 

24 


Sweetbl'icr* 


sum — how awfully greedy and bad those people 
are. Oh ! we do not want them any more !” 
and out rang her rippling laughter, outvying 
the twitter of birds in the trees near by. 

'^You must excuse me, else you won’t have any 
dinner. I must see to the girls — it is so hard to 
get good ones; they are from the farms around 
here, and very seldom know much, so I have to 
cook very often.” 

Miss Briggs stood up, and with her em- 
broidery in her hand pressing her bodice, she 
walked away with a maidenly step; yet Ran- 
dolph noticed that a tinge of queenliness was all 
over her gait, and the erectness of her slight 
yet rounded figure made him sqe the vision of 
a princess of which he had read about in ‘'Ander- 
sen’s Fairy Tales,” when he was a boy. 

“Good morning. Miss Briggs ;” and Randolph 
walked along the verandah whose pillars had 
vines twining up around them, and whose in- 
terspaces had hanging vases filled with flower- 
plants, and evergreens. 

The morning was growing to a voluptuous- 
ness of fragrant freshness and gloriousness of 
tepidness which characterize the fair days of 
June. And with the pretty, rosy face in his 


25 


Sweetbner. 


mind, Randolph walked up and down like a hero 
returned from a propitious matinade. 

Randolph knew that Miss Briggs would not 
he visible till the dinner-hour — so he made 
preparations to walk about town. 

His intentions had been to copy a light opera 
he had written during the winter. His energies 
were at a pitch desirable for such an occupation ; 
and the surroundings of trees and mountains 
and river were conducive to the fulfillment of 
his plans. 

As a composer he had reaped a few laurels — 
and as an opera-writer he had suffered some 
sore disappointments ; he had one being read by 
a manager, and his thoughts were often directed 
.thither; he expected an answer each week. 

While Randolph strolled up the shaded street. 
Miss Briggs was busy giving orders. Her 
thoughts were crowded with her chat with 
Randolph, and many a time she laughed outright, 
remembering some comical remark of his. 

*'He is a queer fellow,^^ she thought, “and if 
he is to stay here for the summer, I shall have 
a jolly time. Til try and make it very pleasant 
for him.’^ And she smiled ; yet in her heart she 
felt a twinge, which was soon overcome, since 
her eyes shot soft lightning of past, clouded days. 

26 


Sweetbfier- 


Then she left the kitchen, and went to her 
room. She took a book from the mantel, and 
read a few lines of poetry. Then she opened a 
drawer ; and while she held a small gold chain in 
her delicate hand, she whispered to herself: 

‘T wonder if I hurt his feelings when I refused 
him!” after which she tossed it from her, and 
shut the drawer. Then she began changing her 
morning-gown, and donned a walking-dress. 

It was about ten o’clock when she left the 
porch of the hotel, and sauntered down the 
street. She was destined for her father’s cot- 
tage, some ten blocks away. Her father was a 
well-to-do proprietor of houses and land, and 
his financial status was known to be very high 
in the village. Miss Briggs was the pivot of 
conversation, she being an heiress. Many a 
young villager had sought her hand; but Miss 
Briggs was wise and cautious. She was wait- 
ing for a good bargain, and she had her father’s 
instincts well imbedded in her nature. 

The cottage was on the outskirts of the town, 
at the head of a glen, whose waters tumbled and 
rushed under shady groves, to the river, about 
a mile and a half away. A garden of flowers, 
and trees and vegetables surrounded the house, 
and, beyond the fence, lay a mill-pond, reflecting 
27 


Sweetbfier* 


a steep, mossy ledge surmounted by a dense 
grove of pine trees on the other side. 

Miss Briggs, whose Christian name was Nattie^, 
looked for her mother, and, as soon as found, 
kissed her. Mrs. Briggs was not the mirror of 
her daughter by any means. Though her 
daughter had inherited her slightness of figure, 
Mrs. Briggs was so far below the charms of 
Nattie, that to a stranger it seemed almost im- 
possible that she had given birth to such a sweet 
child. Mrs. Briggs, to heighten her unfavorable 
person, had met with a calamity so disastrous to 
the prettiness of her features, that she was 
doomed for life. One of her eyes was knocked 
out by some accident too sad to repeat. This 
was the reason that she circulated rarely among- 
the villagers, and confined herself almost entirely 
in her house and in the garden. 

Mrs. Briggs gave a bunch of flowers to her 
daughter, who departed very soon. Nattie 
walked up to the main street, where she entered 
a shop and bought a few things for herself, 
then she turned about, and was soon on the street 
which led to the hotel. As she reached this 
point, she heard a voice: 

‘‘Are you there. Miss Briggs? Going home?' 
So am I. Where have you been ?” It was 
28 


SweetbMef< 


Randolph, sauntering down the avenue to the 
hotel. 

“Isn’t it queer that we should meet? And 
I didn’t want you to see me,” Nattie said naively. 

“Well, I am glad ! So you’ve been shopping. 
And what have you bought ?” 

“No, I went to my mother. See the flowers 
she gave me ! They are to ornament the dinner- 
table.” 

By this time they had reached the verandah; 
so they separated. 

Randolph, all the morning eager to try the 
piano, found at last a chance; so he entered the 
parlor, and elicited melodies from the keys. The 
tone was good, but the wear and tear had spoiled 
the harmoniousness of the notes ; still, Randolph- 
knew it was an impossibility to find a perfect in- 
strument in a country hotel, so his improvising 
had to be partially supplied by his imagination. 

There were a few sheets of music lying on the 
piano-cover; these he read through. There was 
only one classical piece among the number; so 
he resorted to his memory and dreams for more 
entertaining works. 

He was aroused by the tremendous cow-bell. 

And he left off at once, avid for a meal. 
After he had eaten a most frugal dinner, just 

29 


Sweetbrier. 


when the dessert lay before him, Miss Briggs 
'came in, and seated herself at the table, opposite 
to Randolph. 

“I hope the cooking was good. The girls 
could not do anything this morning, so I have 
been cook myself.’’ 

“Everything was excellent. Miss Briggs,” 
Randolph’s polite manner said ; but he more than 
once cursed the toughness of the fatty steak, 
and he could not be grateful to the one who had 
made a mess of soup and the vegetables; as to 
the pie, it was fair, but the wet dough was most 
.abhorred by his delicate constitution; and when 
he thought of the coffee, he had to concede that 
he was telling big stories to his young fair 
hostess. 

“Oh ! I am glad you liked the dinner. You see 
J am just beginning to cook — and I was afraid I 
should not please you at first. But I shall im- 
prove, I hope.” Nattie’s conscience had to con- 
fess. 

“If that is so,” answered Randolph, frowning 
a little, “then I should ask of you not to broil the 
steak too long — you see, I am fond of rare 
steak!” — and in his mind he thought, how could 
anyone broil a steak so long as to make it seem 
like a piece of charred wood. “The pie is very 

30 


Swcetbrien 


good, Miss Briggs,” he continued, while he felt 
that he could be bold and frank, “but I think that 
if the dough be of a browner color, I should pre- 
fer it that way.” 

“I shall follow your advice, Mr. Shendon,” 
Nattie said — in her heart she was very angry 
with him. She was aware that she had not been 
successful — and that he was not pleased, vexed 
her. “To-morrow you shall have a better din- 
ner.” 

At this moment the megalophonous bell rang. 

“Oh ! some guests. I must hurry out. Who 
can it be?” and Nattie ran out, as a pink, radiant 
butterfly flies away from a honey-chaliced flower. 

Randolph was through his repast, so he left 
the room. 

Miss Briggs was officious in showing rooms to 
three young men. 

On the verandah, on the shady side of the 
hotel, Randolph ensconced himself in a rocker, 
and lit a good cigar ; then he puffed — and 
dreamed in the blue serene of a perfect June sky. 

He was satisfied with the solitude of the hotel, 
since he knew that the flower of its grounds 
would be his. He was conscious that he had 
made a good impression upon Miss Briggs; 
and if the meals, and the other imperfections 


Sweetbrier. 


had no recommendations whatsoever, such a 
flitting and lively jewel compensated a thousand 
times for them. 

He bothered his mind whether to call on a 
young lady friend of his in the village that very 
night, or to wait for the following one. This 
young lady Randolph had not seen for over three 
years, and at that time she was a mere girl of 
fourteen. He pondered over the question ; then, 
with a smile, and a puff of smoke, he decided to 
spend the evening with his new conquest. 

Soon he heard voices. The tourists departed. 
Randolph whistled a merry tune ; then, as a rose, 
sweetly blooming in a dark cove, dazzles the 
'eye of the wanderer, so Nattie’s fresh face and 
laughing body, seemed to the wandering 
thoughts of Randolph, as, emerging from the 
hall-door, she stood shyly upon the verandah. 
She was all smiles, and her cheeks were crimson, 
like fresh rose petals gently shaped into a face by 
Aurora. 

‘T think they will take a room — but they were, 
not sure. Do you smoke — how awful 

‘‘Why, Miss Briggs — can’t you bear the 
asmoke?” Randolph said, surprised. 

“I don’t object to the smoke — but nobody of 


32 


Sweetbner< 


our congregation does such a thing. It is bad 
to drink, smoke, or play cards.” 

Randolph had known others of those ideas, so 
he remarked: 

^‘You are a Methodist — at least, your father 
must be. Now, let me dissuade you from slan- 
dering a harmless pleasure. It is a personal 
aflfair entirely ; and they who think by sectarian- 
ism to spoil this short life, must not forget that 
there are more than two or three who have a 
word to say about their tenets and strictures. 
Miss Briggs, don't allow yourself to be fooled.” 

“But father and mother say it is right; and 
I could never disobey them. You must come to 
our church next Sunday.” 

“Thanks; I may go. But during the sum- 
mer I scarcely ever attend service. Then, I 
adore the woods and fields. I came out to wor- 
ship in nature,” Randolph remarked — while he 
thought, how seldom he had witnessed a sacred 
•ceremony in the city ! 

“Oh, how can you be so ! Shame !” Nattie 
said hurriedly, and somewhat astonished. She 
was a devout worshipper, and a good slave of her 
father's church. “I heard you play before din- 
ner. How I liked it. It made me feel as in 
cold days, when my sister was here last season — 

33 


Sweetbrier* 


now she is married. Papa told me you had been, 
here some years ago — I suppose you knew her 
then 

‘‘Let me see — I do — but your sister does not 
look like you. Strange that I had not seen, 
you ” 

“I went to school then — ^but I believe I remem- 
ber you.” And Nattie smiled, and blushed a. 
faint crimson. 

“But I really forget about it,” Randolph ut- 
tered carelessly. “You play, too, don’t you? I 
remember your sister used to entertain the guests • 
with her waltzes.” 

“I have studied for two years; but I have 
not the patience my sister has, and all I can play 
are easy pieces.” 

“Won’t you let me hear what they are like? 
Come; I’ll play for you, then you must return 
the favor.” 

“Oh, no; it is not worth listening to. I can’t 
play at all; but I’ll listen to your playing, Mr. 
Shendon.” 

Randolph knew a girl’s ways, so he stood up, 
and both went to the parlor. 

He played some classical piece, and she ex- 
pressed her delight. 

“Now, pray, take my seat;” and Randolph 

34 


Sweetbfief. 


looked over the sheet-music. sure you play 

this — try it, Miss Briggs.” 

Nattie responded to his entreaty. It was a 
simple, everyday piece — ^yet a sweetness lay even 
in its simplicity, which was heightened by the 
easy and unstudied manner with which she per- 
formed it. 

“Oh, very charming indeed ; you have an easy 
touch, and the piece is pretty to hear. Play 
some more!” 

“Oh! I won't tire you with my trash. You 
play classical music, and don't care for this sort 
of music.” 

“Don't misrepresent me, Miss Briggs. And 
do you sing?” 

“Only when I'm alone, or at church.” 

“Imagine yourself alone — I should like to hear 
your voice. Don't be afraid.” 

And she struck some accompaniment, then a 
bell-clear, timid, rose-young voice greeted Ran- 
dolph's ears. There was some magic in it ; 
undeveloped, as it was, the naturalness and sin- 
cerity of its pitch and expression perhaps more 
than balanced its defectiveness; and what was 
more charming, its maiden-sweet ring and dulcet 
softness appealed to Randolph's sensitive heart. 
He enjoyed it; he asked for a repetition, and 
35 


Sweetbfief< 


was complied with one; then he petitioned for 
another; and again he was not refused. 

Nattie’s voice contained a mellow, clear, 
pathetic ring that must needs penetrate and 
soothe any delicate nature. Her voice seemed 
like a sad tone one hears often in the deep woods 
— a tone coming from unseen recesses, and from 
agencies utterly unknown to the listener. Some- 
thing natural charmed it. It was not spiced with 
the professional’s precision or with the stage- 
songster’s affected stereotype runs and prescribed 
modulations, at times monotonous to the critic’s 
ears; but Nattie’s throat was gifted with the 
sweetness of the robin’s song, and now and then 
her voice flowed clearly, sounding like the 
stronger tones that accentuate the strains stream- 
ing through those magnificent Scandinavian 
pines, that glisten in our Indian summers, when 
the glorious winds are glowing. 

‘‘You have a charming voice. Miss Briggs; 
I have enjoyed your singing. I hope you will be 
generous, and repeat this often.” 

“Oh! I have never studied ” 

“So much more delightful it is, to hear your 
natural voice. You have been gifted with it. 
Miss Briggs.” Randolph stood up, and leaned 
against the piano, near to Nattie. 

36 


Swcetbttcf* 


“Miss Briggs, Miss Briggs!” rang through 
the hall. 

“There is something happening — please excuse 
me — I must see what it is !” 

“Certainly. I thank you for your singing, 
Miss Briggs.” And Randolph, with his enrap- 
tured eyes, followed the delightful figure hur- 
rying out of the room. 

There was an influence gone. Randolph felt 
its absence. Her voice left an impression on 
him. Her sweet face, while singing, melted into 
a divine expression; and her simplicity, mingled 
with her lofty look, were potent enough to exult 
the tender soul of any good-hearted man. Ran- 
dolph seated himself on the piano-stool, and im- 
provised a song — inspired by the feelings he 
evinced after she had left the room, as though 
of some exquisite incense suddenly swept away 
from a harem by a gust of tepid wind. 

An hour after, Randolph prepared for a walk. 
As the hotel had no bar, he was compelled to 
seek for one. In the village there was a central 
hotel, kept by a Russian; and to this one Ran- 
dolph directed his steps. There he found food 
for his city-bred habit in the quality of beer and 
olaret,andthe more elegant drinks which America 
was the first to invent. (Just here a word about 
37 


Sweetbrier^ 


harmless tippling. All tipple — some publicly,- 
others privately or even secretly; the three ways 
are allowed as long as one controls the appetites. 
It is a matter of opinion whether the public tip- 
pler is indelicate, or that those who resort to their 
rooms to imbibe, and deny publicly their liking 
to drink, do the right thing. To any man of sane 
justice — that which is done openly is more manly 
than that which is the act of hypocrisy.) So 
he refreshed his system. Then he resumed his 
walk. 

Randolph’s education had not been restricted 
to music alone. His nature led him to dip his 
thoughts in poetry and literature as well. His 
mistresses, those two handmaids of beauty, fon- 
dled him to excess — and Randolph’s heart beat 
for either as rapturously. He would divide his 
time, and devote one-half to his profession, the 
other to his hobby. And, on his walks, he would 
imbibe everything around him — as a poet is wont 
to do; and at the same time catch themes and 
tunes from the gurgle of the brook, or from the 
songs meandering in undiscoverable paths and 
lanes under the shade of pine groves, or through 
the mysterious dimness of oak clumps. His ears 
heard every sound — his eyes saw every object — 
and his mind, from these, was ever construct- 

38 


FROM HERE AN EXTENSIVE VIEW ON THE RIVER. 





Swcetbrier* 


mg themes for sonatas and symphonies, or 
word-songs, to be written down on paper. So 
his solitude was often a desired predicament — 
and company would perforce dispel his observa- 
tions and song-gatherings, as crowds endanger 
the growth of gardens and even swards and 
woods. 

His path led him up to the tops of the hills 
and bluffs. From here an extensive view on 
the Delaware River valley spread before Ran- 
dolph’s eyes. He saw his hotel, and many of 
the village houses, and, in the far distance, he 
could distinguish smoke, and roofs, and steeples, 
of a large city, some seven miles away, where 
the river made a bend, thus forming a headland 
to the mountain-chain on the west side of the 
river. 

The hill he was on went up very steep, and it 
required some exertion, climbing it ; so he rested 
on the flowering grass-thick ground, and mused 
awhile. 

He crossed a field covered with daisy-crowns, 
then climbed over a fence. He found a path 
along it, and he followed the narrow strip of ex- 
posed clay, till the white stones of a cemetery 
checked his speed. He paused — then took the 
-carriage-road through the grave-acre. This 

39 


Sweetbwef. 


brought him to a rustic summer-house, com- 
manding a beautiful view of the valley. He 
continued to descend the hill — soon he came to- 
the entrance-gate of the cemetery ; and he walked 
on the highway back to the hotel, crossing a 
bridge over the glen-brook, and passing a grist- 
mill. Walking up an acclivity bordered with 
huge oak trees, he passed two boarding-houses; 
then the shade-trees welcomed him to the house 
of his destination. 

It was late in the afternoon. Miss Briggs 
came on the verandah in a flower-spotted gauze 
dress, the image of a fairy ; and her little, 
rounded face beamed and sparkled. 

‘‘You seem tired, Mr. Shendon. Where 
could you have walked to?” she addressed Ran- 
dolph. 

“I am somewhat fatigued. Miss Briggs; but 
I enjoyed the walk immensely. The view from 
the cemetery is fine. I should think a hotel 
would be excellent up there.” 

“Yes ; but that property belongs to the village, 
and the people won’t sell it.” 

“That explodes the scheme, of course. I saw 
some very pretty flowers in the woods. And 
when will you walk with me?” 


40 


SweetbMCf* 


“To-morrow I’ll have time. I can take my 
work-basket with me, so I can be occupied.’’ 

“That will be delightful — and I can write a 
song,” said Randolph. 

“But you must give it to me — won’t you?” 

“Perhaps. If it is good! But I guess I’ll 
prepare for supper; the bell will be ringing 
soon, I fear. So excuse me. Miss Briggs.” 

“Yes. I told the help to have supper early;” 
and Miss Briggs sat down, letting the level rays 
of the sun play with her brown ringlets. 

After supper (the sun had set half an hour 
ago) Randolph spent his time on the verandah, 
smoking, walking up and down: now pausing, 
intent upon some past event — then gazing into 
the darkening sky, till the evening star peeped 
forth, and the shades of the ponderous globe 
cast their thickness over all. 

Then it was that Miss Briggs reappeared; 
obviously, seeking for Randolph. He had been 
waiting for her ; and now both were joined, and 
could talk and chat con amore. 

In the parlor a lamp was burning. They took 
chairs near to the parlor-windows, thus allowing 
a little light for each to see the other — for 
around the hotel it was pitch dark. 

They were seated side by side on the front 

41 


Swcctbfici*. 


verandah. Randolph knew his tactics well — ^and 
he had learned that if close intimacy with a girl 
was sought, delay was fatal to triumph — and 
that immediate maneuvering was peremptory. 
So he was bound to win Miss Briggs for himself 
this night or never. And was not everything 
most favorable for a conquest? She was be- 
sieged by his closeness to her — it required mere 
audacity on the part of the besieger to make the 
siege complete. 

So there they sat, while the darkness and lone- 
liness around created romance, and the sympathy 
between the two acted as enchantment. 

Nattie was embroidering — while Randolph lay 
ensconced in an easy-chair, as an elderly gentle- 
man conscious of age and responsibility. Their 
propinquity allowed of elbowing, and Randolph’s 
knee, as he sat in the manner of men, touched 
Nattie’s gown slightly. 

"‘What are you thinking of?” whispered Nat- 
tie, while Randolph took on an attitude of reflec- 
tiveness. 

“Of nothing — and, yes — I thought how 
strange it is that I am here, and that I am so 
lucky to have you near me. Why, it would 
have been so desolate here, I think I would have 


42 


Swcetbriei*. 


taken train for another place. But now I am 
content — you are so sweet, and entertaining.” 

‘‘We expect some visitors in two days. And a 
young lady will be of the party. You can have 
her as company then; and you won’t think of 
me any more,” Miss Briggs said in a manner of 
voice as if she knew something about the general 
character of male dispositions too well — and she 
smiled, and her brow made a groove for a mo- 
ment. 

“No, no. Miss Briggs! You are all I want. 
But when does the hotel fill up generally?” 

“Sometimes only after the middle of July.” 

“Middle of July!” Randolph ejaculated. He 
thought of the dreariness, yet at once looked for- 
ward to pleasant days with her. “Let me look at 
your embroidery a moment — is that the way you 
place the pin?” — and Randolph’s fingers stroked 
her delicate hand. This was an overture — she 
did not jerk her hand away, as those prim girls 
do, but rather kept her peach-soft finger linger- 
ing by the pin, while Randolph tried to get an 
inkling of embroidery. 

“Oh ! you men can’t do what we can — how 
awkward you are !” Nattie gave free vent to 
her frankness. “Now, see — this way.” 

“How rapidly you do it— well, I’ll not infringe 

43 


Sweetbiief* 


upon women’s abilities ; after all, nature made us 
very different. Are you chilly? It is getting to 
be cool.” 

“No, I am quite comfortable.” 

“Your cheeks seem rosy enough — let me feet 
if they are warm — ” and Randolph realized 
what he said. 

Nattie did not withdraw her face, but contin- 
ued to fill out mesh after mesh with saffron silk, 
following the design of a flower- wreath on the 
linen. 

Randolph knew his conquest was flourishing,, 
so his liberties grew more and more diversified, 
till, after ten minutes, she yielded to his gestures 
of amorousness, and the couple evidently were 
sympathetic, else such demonstrations would 
have been repulsed long since. 

“Have you been to New York?” 

“Yes — just for a week. It is too noisy. I 
don’t like it much. I prefer our village. Of 
course, I liked to go shopping — ^but then 

“You enjoy the garden more, I presume; and' 
are fond of picking flowers in the fields.” 

“Yes. The other day, I gathered a large 
bunch of daisies, and sweetbriers, and smilax. 
You ought to have seen them on the dining-room?' 
table, ril show you where they are !” And her 

44 


Swcctbficf. 


innocent face sparkled at the memory. She was 
the image of youth. 

'‘Yes, we must pick flowers together soon.’' 
And Randolph became as enthusiastic about 
them as she had, a while ago. His poetic vision 
received a new delight, and he looked forward 
to pleasant effusions. 

The night waxed, while they were talking,.. 
and a chilly wind arose. 

“It is getting a little cool. Miss Briggs. Come 
— up for a walk around the verandah !" 

As if influenced by him, Nattie stopped work- 
ing, and answered to his request immediately: 

“It is, Mr. Shendon.” 

Randolph was exhilarated by his success — he 
had reached one goal — he was anxious to arrive 
at the next. While they were walking, Randolph 
stroked her cheeks, to which she did not object; 
but when he was about to entwine his arm 
around her waist, she turned her head, with her 
hand thrust back his arm, and in a timid voice, 
said: 

“You must not do that — ” then, in a languid 
tone of voice, she said, “Stop !” 

This was satisfactory for the besieger — so he 
deterred. 

“But I must be in — oh ! it isn’t half past ten?’^ 

45 


Sweetbrier< 


“Yes, Miss Briggs/' 

They were seated on a bench, and so close to 
-each other that no hand could intervene com- 
fortably. 

“Before retiring, just one good-night kiss!" 

“No, no I you mustn't — what will mother think 
of me!" and Nattie grew a little worried about 
her situation. 

“Can’t you imagine me your brother — just for 
to-night ! Do !" 

“I can’t; but I must go in — sure — I must. 
Good-night." 

“Well, well!" moaned Randolph — sour at his 
defeat. 

They went into the parlor, then into the office, 
and Miss Briggs left Randolph at the foot of the 
hall-stairs ; when at the top, she waved her 
handkerchief to him — then she flashed away as a 
sweet dream, what time the dawn rushes in at the 
portals of dying night. 

“Good-night! Sweet dreams!" 

Randolph was alone. His poetic tendency 
drew him out into the darkness of night, to see 
the constellations dazzle in the deep, deep blue, 
up high — and know where the planet of planets 
seemed a flashing diamond pending in the 
etherous ocean of the inane. He loved this 
46 


Sweetbnef^ 


office. He might have succeeded as an astrono- 
mer, had he some delight in the wearisome 
drudge of calculations; but his was the dream 
and the prophecy. 

He was the last one up; so he was obliged to 
seek his small room. 


47 



CHAPTER THE THIRD 


The Musician-Poet Fares Well during His Second 
Day— Versifying, Working — Enjoying a Village- 
show at Night, and Winning the Kisses of the 
Dainty Mbtress. 



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Swcctbttcf. 


CHAPTER III. 

The Musician-Poet Fares Well during His Second Day 
— Versifying, Working — Enjoying a Village-show at 
Night, and Winning the Kisses of the Dainty Mis- 
tress. 

During the next morning Randolph had been 
occupied with copying his manuscript. The 
utter quietude around was beneficent to the 
rapidity with which his energies were gifted; 
and the intermittent carols of birds, or the dole- 
ful peep of the phoebe, under the verandah- 
eaves, were conducive to an equanimity of mind 
so necessary to any work of correcting and the 
distributing of finishing touches in original 
ereation. 

Once in a while Nattie flashed forth upon the 
verandah — ^and when she noticed how studious 
the boarder was — with another flash, as of the 
darning-needless into a jungle of marsh-flowers, 
she vanished, without heeding Randolph's : 
‘‘Ah! is that you — or allowing him to extend 
to her an invitation to linger by his side. 

51 


Sweetbfici*4 


One hour before dinner he made it a rule to 
take exercise. Previous to it, and after the men- 
tal strain upon the tissues of the body, a draught 
of invigorating beverage acted as a stimulant. 
Then he would walk to new nooks, or to those he 
had known three years back. 

His path led him down the bluff to the river’s 
bank, which was more like a jungle than a 
shore : sumach, beech-bushes, willow trees, chest- 
nuts, maple-spreads, and, interspersed, pines and 
cedars, were huddling like a frightened flock of 
sheep. A thread of open ran parallel with the 
windings of the Delaware — and on this Randolph 
walked to a confluent creek, which he had used 
as a retreat and a quiet bath-nook when last he 
had meditated in those recesses. 

To his astonishment a radical change had taken 
place; and, inspired by his disappointment, his 
sensitive nature induced him to take to pencil and 
paper, and record his feelings created by the dev- 
astations of the creek and its once so shady 
haunts. (As he has bequeathed to me his ran- 
dom verses for my use, his biographer will inter- 
polate them as they follow in this narration). 

So, while he sat him on the long grass, in 
hearing of the rippling waters — he wrote down in 
his book — ever in his pocket for every event or 
62 


Sweetbfief* 


thought that passed his way, or flashed through 
his peculiar mind : 

CHANGES, 

Four years are gone — and to these hills I shout 
My keen delight; the same as when youth 
beamed. 

But all is changed: the river's course, that 
dreamed 

Along soft-shelving banks, flows far without — • 

And brook-beds stare at the intemperate sun! 
And, where I once had bathed, rude thunders 
struck 

The button-trees ; and all the rich soft muck 
Is now usurped by stones, by Spring-floods done! 

So man doth not so swiftly change as Nature. 
The houses here are all the same, but there 
The trees are grown — and here the fields are bare. 
While all the woods show some new, startling 
feature. 

It seems the larks sing more than years ago — 
But my sweet friend and I no difference show. 

From this quick sonnet it is obvious that Ran- 

53 


Swcctbficf. 


<iolph indulged in philosophizing as much as he 
loved music. He was versatile, and his endow- 
ments were prolific. Besides this, his facility at 
versifying was so marked that the time in which 
he penned his thoughts, metrically expressed, 
was almost phenomenal. He was a lyre whose 
strings were touched by invisible agents — and all 
he was called for to do was to listen, and write 
as he heard. Of course his musical ease was as 
wonderful; but where his profession had been 
taught, his hobby of versifying had been acquired 
by himself. It seems he was more like Shelley 
than Gray — the former was the flash-writer — 
while the latter chiselled for years on one model. 
The one the inspired — the other, the doctor led by 
beauty to meditate, and construct. The one a 
glow-worm, or a constellation — the other a ruby 
or a topaz. One quivered to his verses as a tree 
to the tremulous strains of night — the other 
sought for his finish by the standards of his 
predecessors. Shelley, the prodigy — Gray, the 
reverend doctor. 

When Randolph had finished writing, the sun 
was nearing the sky’s zenith; so it was time to 
return. 

‘‘Just think, Mr. Shendon — we are to have 

54 


Swcctbficf, 


a show in the village. When I walked up the 
street, a man was advertising aloud.^’ 

^‘And what kind of a one, Miss Briggs?’* 

“There are five Indians, and other men, who 
will perform. They just came. I am anxious 
to see them. Won’t you come along, to-night?” 

“With pleasure — that is lovely. I’ll be your 
-escort. Miss Briggs. But haven’t you any one 
to take you?” Randolph asked, somewhat per- 
plexed. 

“No — all my friends are away — all that are left 
are mere boys — so I prefer keeping myself com- 
pany.” 

“I shall be charmed to escort you. And will 
you go walking with me now? Let me see — • 
it is just two o’clock.” 

“Yes — wait awhile. I’ll get my work.” 

And Miss Briggs hurried away, soon to return. 

She was dressed in a gauzy, airy dress, so 
suitable for that June afternoon. It was white, 
with pink and blue flowers scattered over the 
limpness of its skirt — and a belt of pink ribbon 
clasped the delicate waist most ravishingly; the 
hodice was loose, yet tight enough to give an 
outline of her budding bosoms. She was a 
butterfly of radiant colors, and her face harmo- 
nized with the freshness of her attire. 

55 


Swcctbfief4 


‘‘But I can’t stay long — I must be back by 
four/’ Miss Briggs said, with a smile. 

“A short while will be as great a pleasure as 
a day’s conversation with you. You are so oblig- 
ing to go with me I” 

And so they walked down the hill to the glen, 
past the grist-mill, and over the bridge. Then, 
turning to the right, walked along the mill-race 
for about thirty yards, till they reached a board 
bridge, which crossed the rapidly flowing waters. 
On the other side was a pine grove. This they 
left behind them, and climbed down an incline 
to the glen proper, where a spread of rich, high 
grass near the creek invited them to seat themselves 
on its border, forming the bank of the brook. 
Around them were brakes of pines, and in the 
center of the grass-wilds stood a clump of large,^ 
broad-branched pine trees which wrought a pleas- 
ant shade, and at the same time a gloom, making 
the surroundings dreamy and most acceptable 
for trysts and lovers’ retreats. 

“This is indeed a favored spot.” 

“When Ned was here, we used to sit here, and 
talk all the morning.” 

“And who is Ned?” Randolph asked, some- 
what mystified. 

“A cousin of mine. He lives not far from 
56 




K 



NATTIE AND NANCY. 



Swcctbficft 


Here. We are good friends together. He has a 
pony, and when he conies to see me, he lets me 
ride him. I love horses ; you must see mine.^^ 

''So you ride?’’ 

"Yes, every morning before breakfast. Nancy 
is a good horse, but she is spunky with others. 
She knows me, and she trots, and she gallops as 
well as one could wish a horse to. But once she 
ran away — and threw me — I didn’t get hurt. 
It can happen sometimes.” 

"There is always a risk one runs when horse- 
back-riding. I met with a narrow escape once, 
many years ago. My horse while trotting, stum- 
bled and fell, and I had the stirrup still on my 
foot — my head was hurt — but the worst of it 
was, that the horse got on his legs, and dragged 
me some feet on the pavement. Had my friend 
not come to my rescue, I should have never 
known that I had fallen from a horse. Fortu- 
nately, he held him up, and extricated my foot 
from the stirrup. I was senseless for some 
hours, and it took over a month before the 
wounds on my head were healed.” 

"That must have been dreadful ! I suppose you 
have given up riding since.” 

"No — but I am careful about my horses,” Ran- 
dolph answered. 


57 


Sweetbrier. 


Nattie had been embroidering while the}r 
talked, and Randolph lay near to her. 

thought you would write a song?’’ Nattie 
began again. 

“So I will.” And Randolph took out a note- 
book with staffs printed on its pages. He 
wrote a simple strain. 

“Let me see it — you’ll play it for me ?” 

“Why, certainly. Miss Briggs!” 

“Thank you. What o’clock is it? I forgot 
my watch.” 

And Randolph’s watch-dial pointed at half- 
past three. 

“I must be home by four. We had better 
return.” 

“Miss Briggs, here is a rose — let me put it in 
your buttonhole ?” 

“Thanks!” and Nattie smiled. 

Randolph had time to make his call on his. 
friend. He donned his black coat and vest, em- 
bellished his shoes, and put on his derby. 

This young lady friend was the daughter of 
a widow who owned a large estate on the limits 
of the village. The residence was a pretty cot- 
tage, whose interior was exquisitely furnished. 
The farm ran down to the river, and extended 
58 


Sweetbrier^ 


"back on the hills to the mountain-woods. In 
all it was a fine estate, and the owner was a 
lady of great refinement and taste. 

Randolph was disappointed when no one an- 
swered the door-bell. He left his card in the 
door-slit. When he passed the kitchen, a young 
negress peered at him. 

“Is no one at home?’’ 

“No, sir — they are all out. Mrs. Eaton is in 
New York.” 

“And when will she be back?” 

“In a few days, sir.” 

“Very well!” 

She was a comical sight. Her frizzly black 
curls bunched ridiculously on her head, and her 
scarlet gown constrasted in a bizarre way with 
the ebon color of her face and hands. She re- 
minded Randolph of Topsy — and with that mem- 
ory he sought a bypath leading down to the 
river. 

In hearing of the rift’s rumble and swash, he 
found a large buttonwood tree — and there he 
sat on a stone, and dreamed. His thoughts wan- 
dered about like the heat of the sun for moisture 
— and soon, as the sun shapes clouds of different 
shapes and density, his thoughts had gathered 
short-flown memories to form a bit of verse. 


59 


Swccthneti 


And this is what his pencil dashed into his 
memorandum-book : 

AT NOON-TIDE. 

'Below the rising moon 
The river Hows away — 

The brown and misty hills 
Have gloomy myths to say. 

I stand upon the bluff, 

While all, at prayers, is still — 

And, through this moonlight-calm, 

I hear the rushing rill — 

While not a sound comes on 
From the large' riveFs How. 

The depth in silence dreams — 

The rill is rushing so — 

Ah, me! so is our manhood quiet; 

Our youth with clamors loud — 

And boyhood whistles to joy; 

While man grows calm, and proud! 

Randolph must have listened the previous 
night to the rill from the bluff. The thoughts 
had crowded into his mind — yet he kept them 
stored away till a more suitable moment should 
arrive for their immortalization. And here 
came that moment — the result is pleasing, and 
60 


SweetbMCf* 


contains a true kernel and is worthy of memoriz- 
ing. 

After completing this jotting, he ran over his 
melody; he struck out one bar — then added a 
more powerful rise to the antithesis. He 
hummed it to himself — was satisfied — and stood 
up to walk to the hotel. 

After supper he meandered through the gar- 
den-walk, now gazing at the pink clouds in the 
east; then standing still, admiring the flash of 
the descending sun, as huge blue clouds rolled 
past; then he stooped to a rose, and inhaled 
the fragrance. But when he heard Nattie's 
voice, he smiled, and a contented look beamed 
from his eyes. 

^‘Well, Mr. Shendon, are you willing to come 
with me ? It is nearing eight, you know.'^ 

Nattie flew down the verandah-stairs to meet 
Randolph, who answered her in most joyous 
accents : 

‘Indeed, it is growing dark. I was waiting, 
you see.” 

And both walked side by side, with youthful 
conversation as company. 

The lot that was taken for the exhibition was 
three blocks away from the main street. The 
.sidewalks were shady, and the vacant space was 

6i 


Sweetbrier* 


surrounded by elms, allowing bits of mountaim 
lo form a solemn background. On the side 
away from the street, and on the top of the in- 
cline sloping to the creek, the booth with a small 
stage stood. Near it, two Indian tents were* 
stationed; and wagons and two buggies com- 
pleted the articles of movables of the party. 

When Nattie and Randolph arrived, a flare of 
light illumined the booth, and spread its rays 
sufficiently to give a gloomy glare to the ten rows 
of board benches as auditorium. Quite a number 
were present: farmers, villagers, young men es- 
corting their sweethearts; some had come with: 
carriages, and these stood around like an impro- 
vised fortress in the prairies. 

Randolph paid the admission fee — then they 
sought for seats, and chose the third from the last 
row. 

The opening was a long discourse on the 
Indian Blood-Cure, which patent medicine the 
lecturer was to advertise. He bestowed eulogies 
on the efficacy of the drug; and, in order to ex- 
plain its effects upon the patient, he ran through 
a number of stomach, liver, and kidney diseases, 
impressing the audience with the importance of 
the administering of his patent, lest they should 
become annoyed with troubles beyond a definite 

62 


Sweetbfief* 


cure. This lengthy preamble was to insure a 
sale of bottles. Then he bragged that if anyone 
of the audience was afflicted with serious head- 
ache, the taking of two spoonfuls of the concoc- 
tion would cause immediate relief. This acted 
as a command, for, when the bottles were shown 
around, the sales were increasing — and those 
poor, ignorant peasants and villagers were taken 
in by the exuberant speech of the shrewd and 
well-informed advertising agent. 

^What a lot of trash he is spouting, and what 
ugly diseases he talks of; I wonder when the 
show will begin !” Randolph remarked, as the dry 
tirades grew most wearisome; and the frequent 
reference to gastralgia, melancholia — Bright’s 
disease — and other Latin names — effective, per- 
haps, but utterly unintelligible to such an assem- 
blage, was so distasteful to listen to. 

“I wish they would begin soon. But he made 
the bottles sell,” Nattie laughed. 

Both were influenced by each other, so oscu- 
lation of knees and elbows was a natural conse- 
quence. 

At last the night was spared the garrulity of 
the agent ; and he announced a jig by one of the 
foremost clog-dancers in the world. This per- 
formance was applauded most gallantly. Then 
63 


Sweetbrief* 


target-shooting was the progression of the show. 
An Indian shot in different attitudes, and also 
hitting the bull’s-eye while looking into a mirror, 
and holding the rifle upon his shoulder, thus be- 
ing obliged to shoot back of him. This creat- 
ing loud appreciation, the Indian had to repeat 
his accomplishment. 

“Didn’t he do that well ?” 

“Yes ; but I’ve seen Dr. Carver shoot better — ► 
and Buffalo Bill, I think, is his equal. But he 
shot well. What is next, I should like to know?” 

Randolph was told by the agent, who screamed 
that the following piece would show the scalping 
of a white by Indians. 

“That must be interesting,” said Randolph. 

“Oh, see ! there he comes !” came from Nat- 
tie’s pretty lips, as she gently hit Randolph’s arm 
in an affectionate way. 

“Yes — and he’s to scalp the white who is lying 
asleep on the log; but we’ll see!” interjected 
Randolph, whose foresight was making him a 
little jolly, and who was smiling at the unsophis- 
ticated interest displayed in Nattie’s mien and 
excitement. 

“There !” and the Indian dashed his knife 
around the white man’s head; in another mo- 
ment the trophy trembled in the Indian’s upflung 

64 


Swcetbrief. 


hand, while he emitted one wild, quick yell ; then 
he held his ear to the ground, and as quickly 
rose; for he was pursued; so he took to flight. 
Scarcely had he jumped off the stage to lose him- 
self in the darkness of the tents and carriages,, 
when three other Indians, dressed differently, 
appeared; on seeing their dead friend, they im- 
mediately scented the murderer’s tracks. Then 
they yelled, and began the pursuit. The stage 
was vacant; on ran the scalper, tracked by the 
three foes. A fight ensued; the murderer lay 
dead, while his scalp was the center of a dance — • 
weird, wild, unusual, and savage in its monotony 
of motion. The climax was the carrying away 
of the corpse. Whistling, and enthusiastic 
plaudits rang through the audience. 

This was the close of the show. The scene 
was impressive; dark night all around, and one 
flare of flame, in the changing power of the ebon 
winds that played, blew — or hurried — across the 
earth ; and a strange, grotesquely grouped assem- 
blage of a variety of characters, half in light, half 
in dark masses of waving depths of shadow; to 
crown all this, the solemn roof of unending 
dusk-blue, fretted with luminous or twinkling 
stars; and, near the pitch-black and undulating 
mountain line, the evening planet, shining 

65 


Swcetbrier* 


sovereign in the spectacle of little man, and in the 
progression of night's hourly mysteries. 

Amongst laughter, bustle, confusion, Nattie 
and Randolph pressed through the crowd to the 
street that lay in utter darkness, since the gas- 
lights were scant and three blocks of obscurity 
seemed to satisfy the villagers. Well for Ran- 
dolph, for he could enwind his arm around her 
waist, or stroke her cheeks, as they wandered 
slowly homeward. 

As the dim light of the hotel produced a ghost- 
like shape in the dense darkness and they knew 
that their walk was over, Randolph essayed to 
kiss his demure escort. He did not succeed, 
however, as she would quickly lean her dreamy 
head upon the side, thus evading the assaults of 
Randolph. But when they stood upon the veran- 
dah, which was dark, and while Nattie peeped 
in the window to see who was in the half-lit 
room, the amorosity of her admirer brimmed 
over, and he caught her around the waist, and 
impressed kiss upon kiss on her cheek, lips, and 
neck. Nattie wrestled awhile, but soon desisted, 
allowing the capturer to deal pleasantly with her 
— and, in her mind, enjoying such sweet behavior 
when night covered acts which at day would de- 
serve slight penalty. 


66 


Sweetbrier* 


His triumph was complete. When a girl has 
been kissed three or four times by a man, she 
will not resist his kisses any more, save on rea- 
sons of anger or quarrel. Randolph knew this, 
and he hugged Nattie till her poor little breath 
almost left her. 

“Why — ” she gasped — “you press me so tight, 
I can’t find breath.” 

“You sweet little bud — let us take rockers, 
and enjoy the cool air,” was all Randolph could 
say in defence of her accusation. 

Nestled closely, they sat, and chatted in the 
dark for a long time. 

Nattie, after having been under the storm- 
kisses of Randolph, at the top of the stairs with- 
drew to her room, and there she sat upon the bed- 
side, letting the hours of the day pass by her, as 
in procession. 

She had still the memories of Randolph’s em- 
bracements — and her little body still felt a gentle 
thrill run over it, as Nattie began to unloosen her 
skirts, and pull off the stockings that had envel- 
oped her fair-shaped legs. She was a pretty 
sight: the lissomness of her thighs, the delicate 
contours of her shape, partially attired, and the 
sweetness of her face, all contributed to the 
worthiness of her charms. Then she knelt at the 


67 


Sweetbfief* 


side of the bed, and prayed; after a few mo- 
ments she blew out the light. Then her night- 
gowned, fair body huddled under the sheets, and 
only sprites and ghosts could enjoy the ravishing' 
lines which her shape formed against the blanket. 


CHAPTER THE FOURTH 


Incidentally Describing How in 
Days Some High-strung Souls 
Nature, as the Greeks of Old. 


These Modern 
are Happy in 



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Sweetbrief. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Incidentally Describing How in These Modern Days 
Some High-strung Souls Are Happy in Nature, as 
the Greeks of Old. 

Life is a strange wheel, the axis of which is 
composed of marriage ; the spokes are love, lust, 
and longing, and their modifications, tied by the 
hoop — hope; all of which are revolved by the 
mystic power that governs thought, the passions- 
and the senses : eternally grinding humaa 
destinies, and shaping fate. 

Randolph had surmised this, from his observa- 
tions in his travels, and while mixing with the 
many various people that he had been encounter- 
ing for seven years. His spoke was longing, 
at the present time, and Nattie’s charms played a 
little havoc with his heart — although it was not 
lit by any emotions nor was stifled by stringent 
love. It seemed, his eyes were besieged — and 
those images received were imprinting them- 
selves on his mind; hence his thoughts were 
drowned in them, and this decided upon his state. 

7i 


Sweetbfier, 


The following morning, he attended to some 
purchases. Then, till noon, he had been studious. 

Nattie more than twice hovered near him; 
and, once, she went up to him, left a flower on 
his manuscript, then blushed a bit; and as soon 
departed. This act of kindness pleased the 
musician; his work progressed more rapidly. 

How woman can influence man ! She is born 
to inspire courage and endurance in the opposite 
sex. Without her power, not many works of 
fame would have existed. Most of man’s mas- 
terpieces were the result of this peculiar, stimu- 
lating influence that woman exerts upon her 
stronger opposite. And Nattie transferred this 
gentle power to Randolph, so that he worked 
with more resolution and delight. 

After his repast, Randolph, armed with his 
cane, set out for a tramp. His pleasure was 
ransacking new forests, and hunting for new 
scenes. He would have made an excellent hunts- 
man, for he had the Indian instinct to a very 
marked degree. After travelling over any 
country once, he was able to know his way per- 
fectly ever afterwards. Randolph was gifted 
with adaptability; when he was environed by 
woods and streams and fields, his musical soul 
was partially lost ; his thoughts were all directed 
72 


Sweetbrfef. 


to schemes of explorations — to science — to 
natural phenomena — as though he were a Stan- 
ley or a Humboldt. 

So he came to a woodland road, along which a 
barbed- wire fence (that detestable, irascible in- 
vention of some bloodthirsty brain) tightened, so 
as to forbid any entrance. But a kind of path 
met Randolph’s eyes — his mind for investigation 
^rew alert — and, with careful manipulation, he 
managed to crawl through one of the narrow 
spaces of the wire fence. Straightway he fol- 
lowed the fern-covered, scarce discernible path — 
downward it led, to a darker quarter of the for- 
est. Soon he came to a mill-race, on the other 
side of which a field rolled down to a brook; 
and, farther, another field extended to the foot 
of a woodland hill. He knew he had found a 
valley — with a brook ; exactly what his heart had 
been wishing for. He was anxious to see 
whether he would be fortunate in finding a pool 
in which he could refresh his body and spirits. 

Agile, and gymnast as he was, he jumped 
over the softly-flowing waters very easily. He 
alighted in a thicket of weeds, tall grasses, 
marsh-flowers and herbs of many kinds. This 
made up the border of the race. Pressing his 
way through the green lush jungle, he descended 
73 


Sweetbfief. 


the incline, till he came to the field. Unex- 
pectedly, his foot found no ground, and he 
halted quickly: a rill gushed under the tall 
grasses — he stood still, and mused; a swarm of 
thoughts rushed into his brain, and quotations 
from the sweet poets invaded his excited mem- 
ory. Keats's line in “Psyche" was recalled; 


“ . . . . couched side by side 

In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof 
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there 
ran 

'A brooklet, scarce espied ..." 

and immediately his brain worked for a romance 
in which he could use the rill, the grasses — the 
field, the mountain and the glorious blue sky 
flecked with golden foam, or fleeced with snowy 
cream. 

While gazing downward at an Indian paint- 
brush — the rich orange-red seeming like a meteor 
in the expanse of green — his eyes were startled by 
the sudden appearance of a snake being borne 
on the bosom of the waters. This was new to 
him. — He wondered ; his head inclined to the left 
side; then, half-audibly, he began uttering a line 
7'i 


Sweetbrief< 


which his brain created as quickly as frost forms 
the crystals on a pond : 


Where, perchance, a snake is carried down. 
Without an effort of his own. 


This was sufficient as a memorandum ; when he 
should reread it, all the associations would reap- 
pear, and he could arrange and invent. 

Crossing the rill, whose gush was softened by 
the grasses bending into and over it, Randolph 
followed the course, till a wood-fence called for 
muscular exertion on his part. Quick as an 
ape, he was over in a thrice, and he found him- 
self in a most sequestered part of the valley. 
Further on, a bunch of alders shaded a space of 
mossy ground. There he lay extended, thinking 
himself Pan, outstretched — listening to sweet 
nymphs singing. 

And truly, Moschus or Bion could not have 
been spoilt by a more poetic, wild place than the 
one Randolph’s chance had chosen for him. 
Flowers lay strewn on the grassy floor; and 
stones of all hues crowded here — and, there, 
dispersed ; and a rocky brook sent rush and sigh 

75 


Swecthticti 


and song to his ears — and seclusion was manifest 
— so he could do as he chose. 

As the day was warm, he did not hesitate to 
indulge in his first brook-bath. He divested him- 
self of his suit — and soon he lay in the ice-cool 
basin formed by a large cavity in the earth, sur- 
rounded by rocks and grasses. And there he felt 
the thrill of primeval man run through him. He 
was a Greek — nay, a god in that solitude and 
sweet liquid, crystalline and cold. And he 
longed for some nymph to share the joy with him. 
But alas ! he reflected, and knew that civilization 
had distorted nature’s child-fair enjoyments; so 
he splashed the waters, and began to sing a wild, 
original tune — unknown in the literature of 
music — akin to the swells in pine forests — and 
a mate to the reverberations of breeze-songs in 
woodland caverns. 

As he stood on the embankment of the brook, 
he was himself — his true nature; his own body 
received the fluctuations of the air — ^hewas prime- 
val ; and he mourned that he could not see 
man’s opposite, gentler build, in beauteous nu- 
dity : near brook, on woodland-grass, and in view 
of the vague glorious forest ! 

Randolph ran about to get dry ; the rays of the 
sun poured upon his skin — every pore drank in 
76 


Swcctbricr. 


the charmed air. His very soul felt the life-in- 
spiring element. 

Then he gazed up to the wooded hills — to 
the pale blue sky. What vastness there was — 
what variety of tones — and what a silentness— 
yet not a question would any of those mysteries 
answer: they were solemn, majestic in their re- 
pose — cold, unrelenting and dumb to mortal's 
prayer. 

It was noon when he was dressed, and ready 
to return to meet the eyes of Nattie. He whistled 
many a tune, as he walked down the road to the 
village. He picked a daisy here, and a phlox- 
bloom there — or, on the margin of the meadow, 
plucked a marguerite for his coat-buttonhole. 

After his short conversation with Miss Briggs, 
who had excused herself on account of kitchen 
duties devolving upon her, Randolph sat on the 
verandah facing the river and the mountains. 
A phoebe-bird flew by him, and she settled down 
in one corner of the ceiling where her nest was, 
evidently. Her rare, wild and doleful call filled 
Randolph's soul with melody — and his poetic 
impulse became dominant. He drew forth his 
book — and with recollections of the past night, his 
pencil scribbled the following : 


77 


Swcctbnef* 


'CONTENTMENT, 

Heigh-ho! We've stood the brunt of lifers sad 
cares — 

But now Tve found a yielding maid for me — 
'And she doth coyly lean upon my knee 
Her strong arm — as she would toOy unawares. 
Press her affection slightly — so that we 

Could sweet enjoy the glance o' each othe/s 
eyes — 

And feel a gentle thrill when I surprise 
Her with my fingers, where her necklace he! 
^Tis sweet to he so seated — with my sweet — 
{While looking at a spectacle outdoors) 

That my two feet press gently her dear feet — 
Her arm leans on my knee — and she implores 
With tender side- glance, that I linger so — 

O Keats! could anyone think then of woe! 


Then his thoughts wandered about ; and, as he 
recalled the days in the city where all was hurry, 
bustle, and greed, and constrasted them with the 
sheen and happiness around him, his pencil could 
not resist substantiating his fancies : 


78 


SweetbMCf4 


When in the woods Fm strolling 
In sunshine or in rain — 

Or when the thunder's rolling — 

/ feel no worldly pain; 

And all the hustle of the city seems so vain! 

For where's the mandate's glory f 
The bird's lozv lullaby 
Ensleeps me! — and a story 
Of dear love hovers by — 

And so I rest — with my sweet, dear one nigh! 

While breezes are a-singing 
Their gentle, fresher strain, 

Out in the wood's low ringing, 

I feel no worldly pain, 

And all the city's hubbub seems so vain — so vain! 


Before supper Miss Briggs met Randolph in 
the parlor, and there she listened to one of his im- 
provisations. 

In the evening both resorted to the show again. 
They knew each other — and they acted as though 
they were engaged. On arriving at the hotel, 
they wandered to the summer-house overlooking 


79 


Sweetbficr- 


the bluff and river, and, in the darkness, they chat- 
tered most amicably, while Randolph held his 
fair one in his arms, and blessed her beauty with 
long-drawn kisses of delight and affection. 

'‘What will they think of us, coming home so 
late? Come; we must go back,” said Nattie, 
with some concern in her delicate voice. 

“Well, if you must — of course. I shall not in- 
terfere, Sweetbrier!” answered Randolph, who 
had given her that sweet sobriquet the other day ; 
and then he choked her with a kiss. 

The following day, while Miss Briggs was call- 
ing on some friends, Randolph sought his quiet 
retreat in the glen, where it was cool and shady, 
and murmurous of brook and leaves. 

There he was inspired to write another song 
in music. When completed, he thought of Nat- 
tie, and the nights of happiness with her. 

Then he saw the glare of the sun upon the mill- 
roof, and the light and brightness of all. This 
revolved in his mind — it burst into images and 
words, and soon he versified what follows: 

Oh! disillusioning day — 

Away, away! 

Come, Night! with all thy myriad stars 
That fair illusions bring, 

m 


Swecihtict* 


When in the West, down purple bars, 

Eve's queenly star falls slowly. 

And not one bird doth sing. 

But all is rapt! — from Night's soft melancholy t 

Oh! brightest glare of day — 

Away, azuay! 

Come, Night! when with my lovely lass 
I walk within thy song — 

And over held, and howered grass 

We wend, while sipping either' s passion, 
Our starlit way along — 

In fond embrace, without an intercession. 

Thou crown of love, of passion's reign,. 

Come quickly here again! 

So, past the orange-blossoms, she and I 
Muse, either thrilled with bliss. 

Sweet 'neath the starry, violet sky. 

My arm her waist entwining. 

My lips pressing a kiss; 

And she love-dreaming, all my love divining! 

Towards five o’clock Randolph found himself 
at the steps of Miss Eaton’s house. He as- 
cended, and, opening the gate at the top of the 
stone stairs, he proceeded to the vine-shaded ve- 

ZX 


Sweetbfiefi 


randah. A few pots of rare, green plants and 
gorgeously blooming flowers stood in the inter- 
stices of the posts. Then he rang the door-bell. 

After some minutes Miss Eaton herself ap- 
peared. 

“How agreeable that you came. You are 
welcome, Mr. Shendon! We saw your card 
yesterday — and we were eagerly waiting to see 
you. Walk in.” 

“I thought I would surprise you!” said Ran- 
dolph, smiling, and stepping into the parlor, which 
was most luxuriously furnished, and exhaled a 
sense of riches, taste, and refinement. 

“Sit down I Mamma will be down presently. 
So you are back from your studies abroad. You 
have not changed very much — ^but I am sure you 
have the finish of a German conservatory ! 
How T shall enjoy your playing!” 

“Let me see ! It is three years now that I was 
away. You have grown quite a young lady.” 

Miss Eaton smiled, feeling flattered. 

When her mother entered, Randolph obliged 
them with some of his music. 

“Oh, play that one by Schubert ; you knoWj — 
a sort of German dance,” said the daughter. 

“Oh, do, Mr. Shendon !” joined in the mother. 

Then he played the simple dance in F Major; 

82 


Sweetbficf* 


indeed, a charming short piece, with its trio of 
wonderful chords. 

Then he played, from notes before him, Beet- 
hoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” 

“How much feeling you seem to possess^ 
Mr. Shendon !” Mrs. Eaton remarked. 

“Oh, mamma ! I have never heard anyone play 
with so much expression. Indeed, Mr. Shen- 
don, I could sit for hours to hear you play,” the 
black-eyed daughter said. 

Randolph turned about on the piano-stool, 
and sat, as is the wont of musicians who are lost 
in their art: that is to say, his eyes were all 
aglow, and his body was nervous; he seemed to- 
be exhilarated for the while. 

He was listless to the favorable comments of 
his admirers; it was not the first time that such 
had been bestowed upon him. 

“Oh, Mary, why don’t you show Mr. Shendon 
the farm? Go and take a walk this fine even- 
ing,” said Mrs. Eaton. 

“Yes; I would like to see it. Just show me 
how far it extends up the hillside. I know it 
reaches in the valley clear to the Delaware River ; 
I should be delighted,” answered Randolph. 

Miss Eaton got her straw bonnet. Soon the 


83 


Sweetbfief4 


two were walking through the garden towards 
the hill. 

Indeed, a most glorious June evening kept the 
two lively with laughter and chatter. Miss 
Eaton was exuberant with speech, and Randolph 
listened to all her information with great interest. 

“Now, can you climb this fence ?” he asked her. 

She did not require assistance; on the other 
side they looked around at the whole length and 
width of the valley, that lay glorified in the teem- 
ing light of the slowly descending sun. 

“This would be a fine site for a house. The 
view is endless in variety of scene, and the hill is 
not too high to necessitate much climbing from 
the roadside!'^ Randolph exclaimed. 

“Oh, I think so, too. But papa bought the 
farm as it was, and he died soon after, and 
mamma was satisfied with the house where it 
stands,’^ she replied. “But come; yonder is the 
wood. I always go there and walk about and 
think a great deal.” 

So they went over the crown of the hill, on the 
other side of which the forest-skirt lay. They sat 
down on a boulder, and exchanged ideas. 

They did not stay long. After a few moments 
they descended to the house ; and in the garden 
they lingered — walking up and down a trellised 
84 





MRS. EATONS’ ESTATE. 


Swcetbne^ 


alley, on either side of which flower-beds lay 
smiling in brilliant colors. 

'‘You must call on us often, Mr. Shendon. 
You know we are friends — and no strangers,” 
said Mrs. Eaton, as Randolph made prepara- 
tions to depart. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Eaton. I accept most will- 
ingly. ril be here soon again.” 

“Oh, we’ll take walks together, Mr. Shendon. 
So don’t be long in coming again !” called out the 
tall, fair young daughter, as Randolph had left 
the stone steps behind him, and was directing his 
way toward the village. 

The highway turned to the right a thousand 
yards from the house; then gradually declined 
to the bridge that crossed the deep gorge, em- 
bedding the mill-brook that was active in propel- 
ling two large mill-wheels down below to the 
left. Having crossed, the road continued 
straight to the village hotel. There he lingered 
a moment ; but, as it was late, he hurried back to 
be in time for his supper. 

That night he was well content with the dis- 
tribution of the favors that fate had accorded 
him. Not alone one fair damsel had seemed to 
have taken interest in him, but there was another 
who had extended her sincere tokens of friend- 
ship— -for which his heart felt grateful. 

85 








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• 0 w., X 


CHAPTER THE FIFTH 


Life is Not All Roses and Virtue ; Rather, the 
Shadows are Ever Conspicuous — Our Pristine 
Instincts Can Never Die Out, However Spiritual 
We' Try to Be, 


, f 


II 


A 


Sweetbfief. 


CHAPTER V. 

Life Is Not All Roses and Virtue; Rather, the 
Shadows Are ever Conspicuous — Our Pristine In- 
stincts Can Never Die Out, however Spiritual We 
Try to Be. 

It almost seemed that the hotel would be ever 
without boarders. No strangers arrived. Mr. 
Briggs pacified Randolph with the ever-ready 
prophecy: “I received two letters yesterday. I 
expect that a few will be up in a day or two.’’’ 
However, days passed, but no newcomer made his 
appearance. 

Randolph was not so dismayed at the solitary 
hotel, since he had Miss Briggs as company. 

A new feature presented itself three weeks 
after Randolph’s arrival. Mr. Briggs had en- 
gaged a housekeeper. She was an elderly woman, 
corpulent, and her appearance indicated that she 
had known affluence some time ago. She had 
her daughter with her; a young girl of seven- 
teen, pretty and well developed. 

When Randolph found Miss Briggs on the 

89 


Sweetbricf* 


verandah alone that day, he ventured to express 
his surprise. 

“Yes, papa thought it best; and I got tired of 
housework. But I do not think she will stay 
long. All our housekeepers left after a few 
weeks. You see, they think they are the bosses ; 
but I am hers laughed the hotel-keeper’s pretty 
daughter. 

“Fine; now you’ll have more time to sit with 
me in the glen,” said Randolph. 

“Oh, but I won’t bother you!” she said, in 
her innocent way — as though she could not credit 
her heart that someone had caused it to beat. 

“Now, do not tease me; you know I like to 
have you walk with me!” 

“All right; I’ll find time to sit with you,” 
she answered, smiling at him in her own charm- 
ing manner. 

That afternoon (it was a Thursday), Randolph 
wefit out for one of his walks. 

Below the hotel, along the river-bluff, ran a 
narrow footpath with the windings of the bluff. 
The space between the hill and river was a real 
jungle of shrubs, trees, and rank weeds. A 
little way up the river, Randolph had found, 
shortly after his arrival, a clump of alder-trees — 


90 


SwcctbMef< 


under whose dense shade he had cool shelter from 
the hot sun. There he sat awhile — and thought. 

All of a sudden, on the opposite top of the hol- 
low, the figure of a girl flashed. He was aston- 
ished. It was unusual that anybody should be 
in his retreat. However, he looked and tried to 
study the apparition. It proved to be a tall, 
well-rounded girl ; in fact, a beautifully propor- 
tioned shape. At once he thought of adventure. 
In this shade, the branches were so thick and the 
leaves so dense, it was impossible for anyone to 
see through them from the footpath. So he 
knew he was secure from detection, were any- 
one to pass down the river-path. Therefore, 
he waved his hand towards her — and she, evi- 
dently as eager for a country flirtation as Ran- 
dolph or any mortal, soon hurried down the hol- 
low’s side, and before three minutes had elapsed, 
she stood all aglow in front of Randolph. 

It was too unexpected a pleasure for him, so 
that he was mute — and let her start a conversa- 
tion. 

“Oh, I have seen you often in the village. 
Don’t you remember? Last week it was; you 
stood on the hotel stoop — and I and my friend 
passed. We flirted with you, but you seemed to 
he proud, and only noticed us with an indiffer- 

9i 


Sweetbrier* 

ent smile,” she said, while she still stood in all 
her country beauty. 

''Well, well!” laughed Randolph. "I do re- 
member; but you were dressed differently then. 
I did not have a chance to see your face long 
enough to be able to recognize it on second sight.” 

Randolph had grown composed again. "Sit 
down I” he exclaimed. 

When she had seated herself upon the soft 
moss, Randolph had opportunity to take notes as 
to her general build. Indeed, she was like some 
voluptuous woman — but her face was rosy and 
girlish — and she could not be more than twenty^ 
two years old. She had an affectionate way of 
talking, and true-heartedness beamed from out 
her large brown eyes. As to who she was, he 
could not surmise. He thought she must be a 
villager; but after a while, it was evident that 
she was one of the wild girls who indulge in way- 
ward adventures. 

"Do you expect to stay for the summer?” she 
asked. 

"I hope to. But who are you? I am curious 
to know. You are a beauty!” and Randolph 
stroked her soft, red cheek. 

She smiled, evidently flattered at his compli- 
ment. 


92 


Swectbtter. 


‘‘Well, I was born here — and live here still. 
I sometimes travel to New York — oh 1 you know 
all about it!'* and she put her hand on Ran- 
dolph’s shoulder. ‘‘But you must feel lonely — 
although I know all about your love-matches. 
Yes, Nattie is your conquest! I used to be 
in the same class with her at school ; but she does 
not notice me any more. You see, I have chosen 
an independent life; she is good — I am bad; 
that is to say, the world says so. But you know 
what I mean!” and she laughed in cheery tones 
of joy, as if her life had been destined for her 
eons ago. 

These disclosures Randolph took philosophic- 
ally. He was glad he had a girl with whom he 
could be free and easy — yet he was rather sorry 
that she knew his Nattie. Still, he did not mind. 

“So you know all about me. Well, then, let 
me kiss you!” and she let him enjoy a nec- 
tarine kiss, such as Propertius took from the in- 
comparable, rose-petal soft lips of his Lesbia, 
centuries ago. 

“You are out for a walk again. You enjoy 
walks, I know. Come ; let us go down the river 
a mile — we can be more at ease away from the 
neighborhood of the hotel,” she said, while she 


93 


Sweetbrier. 


stood up, and in all her beauty dazzled the eyes 
of the impressionable musician. 

“All right \” he said, and standing up, hugged 
her Venus-fair body. 

Emerging from the dense alder-clump, they trod 
the footpath, and soon were meandering down the 
river-shore. 

The wild shores of American rivers are most 
picturesque. The jungles here, the low promon- 
tories with oaks or willows adorned there, and 
at intervals the brook-valleys breaking the path — 
all of these enhance the scenery; while peeps of 
blue river, and now and then vistas of river and 
distant mountains obliterate any weariness in the 
pedestrian's mind. 

“Why, how the brook has done ravage to the 
bed ! Last year it was all overgrown with 
bushes !” said Randolph, as they crossed the 
plank-bridge of the brook running from the left, 
down into the river a thousand yards to the right. 
On the other side, the ground rose to a low 
plateau, which was covered with birch trees so 
dense that a man found the copse impassable. 
After a hundred yards the paths diverged — one 
leading down to the river; they kept on the 
shore-path, and soon were in a jungle of weeds 
and tall grass. This behind them, a woods con» 
94 





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A RIVER VIEW 


Swcetbncf. 


fronted them; and on an open place they sat 
down to chat and kiss and enjoy the sweets of 
their respective propinquity. 

Here indeed was solitude. Great oaks, tall 
ash trees, graceful birches, broad beech trees, vines 
hanging down the branches, low pines, dark spot- 
ting clumps of undergrowth, were there to form 
a wild wood, which a Satyr-band with their 
nymphs would covet. Where they sat, the grass 
was short and moss-patches softened the ground ; 
flowers grew in profusion; herbs of various de- 
scriptions grew in the midst of the wood-grass ; 
and here and there a few dead leaves lay, still 
from the last autumn days. It was quiet there; 
only the twitter of birds, the rustling of some leaf 
which a chipmunk whisked, as he scurried to his 
hole ; and off and on, a faint shout from the river 
— perhaps from a boat man, or- from some farmer 
boy who helloed across from his orchard to a 
friend in a field, this side the Delaware. 

like this quietude, don’t you? I always think 
of the world then. I never thought I should be 
like this. But who can help it? — it is circum- 
stance. And then again, I would not like to be 
kept shut up at home/^ said Cora, for that was 
her name. 


95 


Sweetbner^ 


“I more than enjoy it. I'm a musician, you 
know;" and Randolph kissed her passionately. 

Thus it was in the days of the Bible. Modern 
customs have lost much of the charms that a 
nature-life, a poetic way of living, affords. Who 
loves to dream in nature's beautiful realm ? Who 
eares to cast aside conventional city life for 
a while, and breathe freely in the salubrious air 
of a June day with the sun glowing over one and 
all ? There are a few — very few. 

*T will not be here for two weeks. Tm going 
to New York on a visit. So you will have to wait 
for another walk with me !" 

*Tt is nearing evening. I’ll have to get back 
to the hotel," said Randolph. 

They .rose, and walked back. On the other 
side of the brook, they separated. 

‘T’ll go up by the brook-path, so nobody will 
see us together. Bye-bye!" said Cora; and 
after many a kiss the two went their ways. 

On the verandah was Nattie. She beamed; 
she seemed more pretty than ever. 

'‘How did you enjoy your walk?" she smiled. 

“Had a fine time, Sweetbrier. Went down 
towards the swimming-beach. There is a large 
wood, and I dreamed there for a long while. 
Let’s go over to the rustic-arbor I" 

96 


Sweetbfief. 


Both went to the arbor, that commanded a 
view of the entire river-valley. It stood close to 
the edge of the bluff, and it had the reputation 
of being a kind of trysting-place for the village 
lovers at night-time. 

After half an hour of desultory talk, they 
walked back to the house. As they were on the 
verandah, all of a sudden, Cora came up from the 
bluff-walk; and while she was on the carriage- 
road, evidently on her way home, Nattie, per- 
plexed, yet in utter innocence of heart, suddenly 
said to Randolph: 

“Oh, don't look at her ! She's bad !" 

“Who ? Why, who is she ?" Randolph feigned 
ignorance. 

“Oh ! she used to be my classmate three years 
ago. But I do not go with her any more. 
Come; let's go away! Quick!" said Nattie; 
and she hurried into the parlor, Randolph fol- 
lowing her. 

Randolph was about to ask why she did not 
speak to her any more; but he deferred wisely. 

This was a rather awkward position for Ran- 
dolph to be in. He told a lie to Nattie — and it 
was strange that she had made such inappro- 
priate remarks. From Nattie's nervousness it 
could be deduced that she had knowledge of 
97 


Sweetbricf* 


Corals doings; but why she should show it to 
Randolph, who must have thought her innocent 
as a lily in the woods, seemed unfavorable ta 
Nattie’s purity. 

To Randolph it was rather trying. He was 
confronted by the beauty with whom he had in- 
dulged in amorosity, right in sight of his Nattie, 
of whom he could not think anything derogatory 
— and, to have heard from her own lips what kind 
of a girl Cora was, culminated his astonishment 
and perplexing position. 

Still, that is true life. No one knows of the do- 
ings of his fellowmen. Randolph never thought 
that Cora could spring up like an apparition after 
he had been walking with her alone, just when 
he was in company with Nattie. Nor did he 
ever dream that such a sweet child of a villager 
could be acquainted with the life that is kept 
secret in ordinary conversation. What could 
have possessed Nattie to burst out with such can- 
dor, puzzled his thought. Could she have sur- 
mised that Randolph had met her down by the 
river? And when Cora walked by, coming from 
the direction of the river-copse, all flashed in her 
imagination at once, and she lost control of her 
speech, so as to blurt out her knowledge of the 
actual life of the beautiful girl ! 

98 


Swcetbfief< 


Be this as it may, Randolph’s lie came natural 
enough, so that Nattie could not but think he 
spoke the truth. And there it rested. Randolph 
was guarded enough not to broach the subject of 
Cora again. 

"‘Improvise, Mr. Shendon!” was all Nattie 
could say, as she let herself fall in a comfortable 
armchair in the corner of the parlor just at the 
window. 

Randolph felt relieved. He quickly set to 
playing a lively melody. Soon Cora and the in- 
cident with Nattie had been forgotten. 

“Just think! I’ve been working at some em- 
broidery for our church-fair. Oh! you must 
write a song, and I’ll tell the pastor to have it 
raffled for. Now, you will, won’t you?” pleaded 
Miss Briggs, as she came up to the piano, and 
stood, leaning her elbow on the piano edge. 

Randolph kept playing vague harmonies, while 
he answered her : 

“Why, yes! I’ll be glad to help your church 
along. You know I do not frequent church 
much; but for you I’ll write a song. When is 
it to be?” 

“In three weeks from next Wednesday. It’ll 
be just one week ahead of the Episcopal fair^ 

LofC. 


99 


Sweetbfief. 


Of course, you will go to that one, since you 
know Miss Eaton?” said Nattie. 

For awhile Randolph was stupefied that Nattie 
knew so much about his affairs. But after reflec- 
tion, he had to acknowledge that it was no more 
than in perfect order since he was in a village — 
and there gossip is like electricity; it is all over 
at once. Hence, how could his visits to Mrs. 
Eaton be unknown to the prominent parties? 
No doubt, Randolph’s walks must have been 
ferreted out by some unknown gossip; and this 
made him feel uncomfortable. 

“Miss Eaton has not told me anything about 
it yet, Sweetbrier.” 

“Oh! you’ll be bothered soon. Just wait till 
she buttonholes you. Ours is going to be the 
finest of all the past ones. You must go to 
church with me next Sunday. All men ought to 
attend church. That is what the minister says,” 
she said in all her innocence, and in a persuasive 
voice, as though she were a missionary. 

“Oh, you can’t convert me, Miss Briggs. I’m 
too old for that. But with you at my side, church 
will not be so tedious. Why, Sweetbrier, write 
it down that I’ll go to church with you next Sun- 
day 1” 


too 


Swectbricf. 


“That’s nice of you. Now, you must not 
smoke so much !” she continued. 

“Oh! smoking is all right for those who can 
regulate their habit. Now don’t try to play the 
Methodist minister with me, Sweetbrier, or I’ll 
not write the song !” 

“Oh, do! Now, I’ll let you do anything you 
like; but I want that song.” She changed her 
words as soon as she saw that they brought her 
disadvantages. Aye; selfishness, although often 
masked with good will, is paramount in the 
human breast. 

That night Randolph thought deeply over the 
conflicting incidents of the day. 

The following Sunday he took Nattie to 
church. She was dressed in all her country sim- 
plicity — a white muslin gown, with a pink sash, 
and a pink ribbon around her neck — and a plain, 
pretty straw hat on her head. They had not far 
to go, as the Methodist church stood about two 
blocks away, and on the same street as the hotel. 
The church was a wooden structure, plain; the 
interior was as plain. 

It was pleasurable for Randolph to be in 
church with Nattie at his side. She cuddled up 
to him, and his knee was close to hers. And 
when they stood up to sing hymns, he held her 


m 


Sweetbrier* 


hand in his, while holding the hymnal as well. 
Thus the hour and a half of service and sermon 
passed by without any monotony. 

When they reached home, Nattie attended to 
her hotel duties, while Randolph took a seat on 
one of the chairs on the garden-lawn. The day 
was glorious; but, as I have his own picture of 
it among the papers he has given me, I will copy 
what he wrote there that Sunday morn. 

LANDSCAPE. 

Before me is a clover-Hushed sward. 

That leadeth to the bluff’s fair edge: 

Whereon a graceful clump of various trees 
Screens part of the far river-hills, 

That shine, in the clear morning-air, against 
The lavender and far horizon, where 
My eye is lost in mystery! 

Such is the painteP s composition’s whole! 

But how the poet’s pen may tell so much 
That neither tint nor line may sweet depict — 
For through the bee-sung air there flows 
A whispering wind; then rushes onward fast. 
Thus shivering all the flozvering trees; 

And swallows dart — birds carol, pipe, or cheep — 
And in my soul I think of thee! 

\Q2 


Swectbfief* 


His thoughts were of his Nattie, for the fol- 
lowing was dashed off after he had completed 
his “Landscape” : 

SABBATH-MORN. 

The rose-hush bendeth to the wind. 

The sun is glistening all the green. 

The tree-tops shake; around the rind 
The ivy twineth — dark and sheen. 

Within the room my. Sweethrier sings 
Some solemn hymn to crown the day. 

While on the breeze, my heart's joy-wings. 
Propel me to fair lands away! 

My Sweethrier sings a Sabbath-song; 

Her tender voice is silver-clear. 

So tremulous, I ween, there throng 
In her soft memories so dear. 

So may I muse, and think of her. 

While roses bend to the cool breeze — 

And tree-tops shake; and through the stir 
Of morn, my he art- pain I may ease! 

That afternoon he wandered alone to the ceme- 
\0Z 


Sweetbrier. 


tery*hill, and sat under a dark pine clump, think- 
ing and scheming. 

The evening he spent at Mrs. Eaton’s. Thejr 
sat part of the time on the verandah, and part in 
the parlor, looking at picture-books, paintings, 
and conversing about art, music, and the world 
at large. 

Randolph went home to the hotel in time to say 
a "'good-night” to Nattie. It was their wont tO' 
stand at the head of the hall-stairs, and talk, 
while filling the pauses with long kisses. He 
knew that such bliss could not last long — since 
soon guests would arrive; therefore, he tried to 
prolong these unconventional night-moments, till 
the porter came, turning off the gas, when Nattie, 
with a last kiss bestowed on her friend, hurried 
down the right hallway to her own small room. 
Randolph retired, sweetly lulled to slumbers by 
the tender, passionate and unexpected happenings 
through that glorious day of cadent, mellow 
June. 


m 



In Which the Musician>I*oet Imbibes Poetry from 




Sweetbfier. 


CHAPTER VI. 

In which the Musician-Poet Imbibes Poetry from the 
Woodland Nooks — And Makes Friendship with an 
Artist. 

It was the beginning of the last week in June, 
Nature was slowly losing that illusive languor 
that lolled in the sun-mellowed air ; the roses had 
almost blossomed to their full, and there were 
signs of a warmer reign to come, flooding the 
country. The glen had grown greener — the 
freshness seemed to evaporate from its recesses; 
the bird-songs changed their clear notes for a 
dryer sound, and the nights exhaled a tenser 
odor that foretold a coming hot summer. In 
fine, it was noticeable that the virginity of the 
season was gradually developing into the riper 
state of girlhood, when love should burst as 
the sun-rays grew warmer, before they could ma- 
ture the seeds into fruits during the sultry 
August days. 

Randolph felt this. When strolling along the 
river-bank the shouts from across the river had 


107 


Sweetbrier* 


not that fresh, clear pitch of the previous week. 
He found the umbrageous alder-trees more 
grateful ; and the white sand, that here and there 
was seen on the bluff-side, was more glaring 
when his eyes looked that way. Indeed, there was a 
silent herald of summer in the air — and his sensi- 
tive body was well aware of it. Already slight 
dust had settled on the roadside trees. The 
light green of the leaves in the woods had taken 
a darker hue to them. Many flowers he had 
plucked in glen, in field, or in the dreary wood- 
land, had died; but there he found a number of 
new ones, not yet in bloom, and peeping forth 
their leaves, or some their stems, that had delicate 
budlets waiting for July to unfold. 

Life is a paradisiacal state when a person's 
mind knows itself happy. Paradise is procurable 
here on earth; there are occupations for which 
we have uncontrollable inclination, that take us 
far from earthly commonplace to regions of the 
soul; such Randolph was endowed with; and 
when he wrote music or sanctified the day by 
committing his soul-songs to paper, he was in- 
deed feeling the soft winds that blow in para- 
dise ; for paradise is the East Indian pundit’s Nir- 
v^ana — it is that state of the human soul in which 
he creates beautiful works of the mind. What 


Sweetbrief. 


IS love’s happiness ? — it is the hour when the soul 
shapes the state of the dual concord and of recip- 
rocal affection — for while we are in love’s em- 
brace, our soul is ever creating untold blisses that 
might bloom in the future. 

When Nattie came floating like a young morn- 
ing-cloud under a brilliant azure sky, Randolph’s 
soul was thinking of the time when she would be 
his alone, and would be heaping affection and 
love on him to over-contentment. He was liv- 
ing in several paradises those days: he had his 
beautiful, airy wives — Music, Poetry and Phi- 
losophy, — then his eyes were charmed by Nattie’s 
fairy figure ; he had the assurances of friendship 
from Miss Eaton, of whom his mind created situ- 
ations of love and beauty for the future; and 
now he had a flock of other girls to whom Miss 
Eaton had introduced him. How could he be 
forlorn ? When mournful, he called on his 
earthly charmers; when he felt bored by too 
much convention, he sought solitude by river or 
on hill-top, and there was caressed by his Muses. 

It must not be forgotten that Randolph’s heart 
had been torn apart by a disappointment in love, 
many years before the time that my narrative be- 
gins; and this will account for the note of sad- 
ness in most of his verses penned in these lively 

mi 


Sweetbrief. 


surroundings. The heart has its own desolation 
to bear; and though brightness and hilarity be 
around one, the inner heart-memories still 
abound. 

It seemed strange that he should be a vic- 
tim to such a love, when he knew that a union 
with the beloved was impossible years ago. But 
love that has been in glow, and has burned a 
man’s heart once, does not lie extinguished 
quite — it remains smouldering on the heart’s 
magic hearth, and when a breath of the old love’s 
memory touches it, at once there are glows again ; 
and the revivified heat rises to the mind and soul 
of the love-forlorn. On this account it was 
natural for Randolph to be gloomy at times; 
yet this gloom in an imaginative mind is the 
creator of inestimable works of art — as, in cen- 
turies gone by, Dante was actuated to create his 
immortal masterpiece from out the smouldering 
ashes of his love, untimely lost. 

Miss Eaton was vivacious ; she had known all 
the Hite of the village since her childhood, and 
through her introduction Randolph found ad- 
mittance to the houses of all distinguished fam- 
ilies in M . He called there frequently — 

nearly every day ; sometimes a short stay, a pass- 
ing handshake, and at other times, a long, con- 

HO 


Sweetbficr* 


genial talk, with piano and guitar-playing (for 
she was learning to play on the southern instru- 
ment) as fair dissertation. 

Miss Eaton’s friends were numerous. Ran- 
dolph grew friendly with all, and his winning per- 
sonality won him their admiration. Often all 
would meet at Miss Eaton’s house, and from 
there would start out for long walks to Butter- 
milk Creek, seven miles up the river-road. They 
would take the bluff-path back of the cemetery. 
This path wound through the thick woods that 
lay high on the bluff’s crest, a mile away from 
the winding river. At their destination the view 
■of wild, large waterfalls repaid them for their 
long walk — and there they sang, chatted, and 
made merry. 

Especially one family was bestowing marked 
attention to Randolph. Mr. Lemuel owned a 
large house with fine gardens around — and his 
three daughters and four sons were much spoken- 
of individuals in the village. Often parties were 
given at Mrs. Lemuel’s, and Randolph was one of 
the conspicuous guests. He being a musician 
they made much of him. Miss Ellen, the oldest 
daughter, seemed to be laying her webs of con- 
<iuest around him ; but he did not respond. The 
second in age was more handsome, and she was 


Sweetbricf* 


more to his fancy. However, he did not care to^ 
enter into any flirtation with them; he had his 
Sweetbrier, and she was fairy and beauty for his 
poetic nature. The sons were congenial young 
men, and Randolph and they enjoyed many a 
drinking bout, and a few walks around the coun- 
try together. 

That Randolph should be so often away from 
the hotel, did not please Nattie, for one after- 
noon she blurted out : 

“Oh, you have quite a number of young lady 
friends now. You will throw me in the corner,. 
I fear. I thought so !” 

“Why, not at all, Sweetbrier! You are my 
fairy. The others are acquaintances — and I have 
to go with them now and then. Let’s take a 
walk to the arbor and talk it over.” 

“I can’t now. But I’m afraid you’ll forget me 
soon,” she persisted. 

“No, Sweetbrier; how can I?” and he kissed 
her dewy lips. 

One morning when he had no engagements, 
he walked alone to a waterfall, three miles in 
the country, back of the village. 

The walk thither was charming. Instead of 

taking the village street, on which the D 

House stands, he descended the side street at this 

n2 


Sweetbfief. 


hotel down to the creek. Along it a carriage- 
road ran to the west, with its windings, for six 
blocks, to a grist-mill. There the creek wound 
to the left, while the road went straight ahead 
some hundred yards, where it turned in a semi- 
circle to the left. Here were still a few houses 

of the outskirts of M . Then the road ran 

straight for a furlong, till it met the creek again. 
A rustic bridge led over the creek. The high- 
way continued ahead. Randolph took a road 
leading to the right, which wound up a hill — then 
up to the ridge of the acclivity which formed one 
side of the gorge where the creek rushed through, 
in pool and falls, from the far-off mountain. 
He climbed over a fence to get into the woods. 
A path followed the curves of the gorge-ledge. 
About a furlong of shady woodland scenery 
brought him to a steep footpath, falling with the 
acclivions gorge-side to an open, where the beau- 
tiful falls gave delight to all that had wandered 
to its seclusion. 

Here was wild music for his soul — and the 
fresh leafage, with the dark patches of pine- 
clusters, with the birds singing, all inspired Ran- 
dolph to the quick. In front roared the falls — 
back of him gigantic rocks reared their solemn 
masses — and below there was a deep, wide pool, 

H3 


Sweetbirief^ 


in which he had often bathed. He climbed down 
the rocks, and sat upon the flower-grown bank of 
the brook. He grew meditative. The continu- 
ous rush and roar of the falls made him forget 
his woes — perhaps we may attribute the use of 
music at circuses or at acrobatic performances to 
this reason — inasmuch as it makes the per- 
formers forget their perilous feats, and it puts 
them into a state of mental happiness for awhile. 

May these suppositions be right or wrong, the 
sensation the intonation of the foamy falls 
wrought on Randolph’s mind must be derived 
from his own words — as I find some lines he 
wrote on the very spot. 

I am again 

'At thy feet, O waterfall! 

And feel thy gentle rain, 

And am once more thy thrall. 

For now the rush doth to my ears 
Bring memories of olden years: 

When, in my boyhood, I had stood 
Upon the brink of the wild wood, 

Not comprehending thy low roar — 

So like upon the ocean's stormy shore! 

^ Not knowing that my manhood be 
So drenched with tears and misery! 


Sweetbrier* 


But now I see thy cascade's snow 
With far another love than years ago. 

For it doth soothe the truth of life, 

Sweet drowning tales of loss and strife; 

Its sound doth make my heart-pain melt 
Into a sense of dreamy ease, I felt 
When in my mind I heard the wings 
Of spirits singing wondrous marvellings! 

Oh! it doth keep my longings in their bounds; 
And so my moans and sighings wild confounds. 
Oh! could I have for aye thy rushing sounds 
Within my ears — I think I could 
Bear better my drear solitude. 

For all thy rush doth drown my woe. 

As though a wreath of sound would go 
About my senses, so to keep 
All earthly strifes away; and I could reap 
A farther thinking, leading me to realms 
Where Love our soul and dr earnings over- 
whelms! 

The utter seclusion that was manifest in this 
gorge — and the knowledge that no one would 
intrude upon his privacy (since there were no 
guests at the hotels — and farmers and the vil- 
lagers were not in the habit of resorting to 
.scenes and nooks of beauty), Randolph un- 
US 


Sweetbticr, 


dressed, and soon his body was swimming the 
depths of the wide, long pool, that was so trans- 
lucent, each pebble on its bed was visible to the 
naked eye. The circular basin was large enough 
for a band of Satyrs to disport in; and, where 
the falls rushed into it, fathomless, as the im- 
petus of the waves forbade anyone venturing 
within five feet of its whirl, lest he be sucked 
down into blackness and churned to death... 
Around the basin, whose bed shelved gradually 
upwards to the pebbly shore, the woods were, 
thick — large oaks and ash and pines, a thousand 
years old, wrought a scene worthy to be taken for 
a painting to represent some sacred rite prac- 
ticed in the old wood of Teuterburg. Innumer- 
able plants and flowers choked the sides of the 
gorge ; — where he sat down to dress again, there 
was a dense patch of touch-me-nots, whose 
delicate flowers he always had admired; and: 
when he was garbed in convention’s attire he sat 
him down upon an old log, to write the following 
sonnet : 

CONVENTIONAL FEMININITY. 

This August-morn Tve seen couth, swarthy Pan^’ 
As he was standing by the brook's deep pool.. 

n6 


Sweetbrief* 


Then plunged he in its crystal waters cool, 
Swam round — then to the shady lawn he ran;: 
And there reclined, he lay like any man. 

I went to him; when lo — a poet rare 
He was, zvho relished all the forest-air — 

Came here to follow nature's healthful plan: 

To bathe 'neath the clear sun-ruled firmament. 
Thus did I see couth Pan; hut, ah, dear me! 
No nymphs tvere there in glowing nudity! 

For nowadays their thoughts on wealth are spent,, 
And they forego to stand in beauty, hare 
To loving Pan, who would they bathed there! 

Below this wild and most picturesque basin the' 
gorge grew narrow, and a perfect wilderness 
made any attempt to follow its course impossible. 
Randolph was obliged to climb the steep gorge- 
side, and wander back to the village the same 
way he had come. 

Such solitary walks were frequent. It is in 
solitude that the creative mind knows its powers. 
In company with others, though inspirations 
might flood the receptive soul, the pleasure of 
writing those songs down is made impossible 
by the presence of mortals who, perhaps, cannot 
share the high thoughts ; hence they are disturb- 

ni 


Sweetbwef< 


ing elements to a poet’s- singing. It is, there- 
fore, that the average mortal is puzzled at the 
taciturnity of some lonely men, or at their apathy 
at times to carousing company — because they are 
being visited by scenes, thoughts and melodies 
they see, feel and hear within the soul, whose 
landscapes are interminable, whose dreams know 
no end, and whose well of tunes and symphonic 
themes is undrainable, like a mountain-spring. 

Nattie seemed more charming than ever when 
he saw her in the garden that noon. She seemed 
like Beatrice in Dante’s “Vision.” Innocence 
was beaming from her whole frame ; and, surely, 
it must have been the aroma of love that envel- 
oped her while she was talking with Randolph. 
Indeed, she thought much of him. She was 
young ; a village girl, who had not seen any large 
city yet. Her thoughts were unsophisticated — 
still, now and then she showed bits of self- 
acquired wisdom, which, coming from an other- 
wise innocent mind, was more astonishing, to 
the one who listened to it. Bits like these : 

“Oh, I won’t marry; I don’t want to be a 
slave to a young man, nor the doll of an old 
man.” 

“Love is like a fever — it’s hot, then it cools 
off rapidly.” 


m 


Sweetbrier* 


^^All men flatter a girl/' 

“ril keep away from the gossips/’ 

How could a girl of that frame of mind be 
insensible to the affectionate attentions of a 
young man like Randolph. They were most 
of the day together ; and every night kisses only 
strengthened their mutual attachment. Ran- 
dolph saw this — and he was happy. When he 
noticed her flushed face and the dreaminess in 
her eyes, he felt assured that she had fallen a 
victim to his mesmeric ways. He knew she was 
his. 

In the afternoon, while seated in the summer- 
arbor, he pencilled a memory of her beaming 
countenance. 

When she this noon-tide came 
She seemed with happiness adame: 

It was as though full hundred roses winged 
Around her head. 

And they had dddles, roses-stringed. 

That gave out tones 
So sweet, so petal-like and rosy-red, 

Methought I were enveloped round 
With all her rose- joy and love-sound — 

And so sweet-revel with her round Love's rosy 
thrones! 

U9 


Sweetbrief^ 


The sunsets there are noted for their beauty. 
Many an evening they stood in the garden, Nat- 
tie leaning against a tree — or standing close to 
Randolph — chatting, teasing one another, and 
silently weaving the web of love around each 
other’s hearts. 

One afternoon he wrote the following: 

Oh! sweet 'tis, culling airy flowers 

On h or del of some beauteous dream — 

'And smell them — musing in its bowers 
Fast by a lily-whispered stream. 

And this: 

Sweet song doth come to me 
And bloometh like a blossom on a tree. 

No drudging like man's machination — 

Blit 'tis the mind's sweet exultation! 

At another time he penned down the bio- 
graphy of his brain: 

What things have wandered through this brain 
of mine! 

The murderers thoughts; the virgin's prayer; 
The maniac's moods; the vows of saints divine; 
The maiden's dreams; the prisoners stare! 

m 




"NATTIE LEANING AGAINST A TREE.’’ 


Sweetbfier. 


Oh! every mien, and thought; all dreams this 
world contains, 

Have found a place within this strangest of alt 
brains! 

That Nattie was growing truly amorous of 
Randolph, the following note verifies : 

MAIDEN’S WAYS, 

When once I gave a rosebud pink 
To pin upon her bodice fair. 

She ate the petals, and did think 
I was love’s hired snare. 

That was some days ago, when love swelled not — 
When she knew nought why she that rosebud 
got. 

But one lone buttercup I gave 
This morn; and she did pin it on 
Her frilled bodice, like a wave. 

The which my eyes did fondly con. 

For now she knoweth that my kiss pressed deep — 
And I her image in my memory keep. 

That she cherished his kisses and seemed to be 

m 


Sweetbrief* 


enmeshed in his love-making, this bit of mood 
will corroborate : 

Oh! now, at day, my lips she kisses 
And cherisheth young budding blisses. 

When, yesterday she would not purse 
Her lips to mine, nor zvould my foiidling nurse^ 
Oh! now she's grown to be my blushing bud. 
And we may coo and bill in lover's mood. 

Oh! now, at day, she kisses me 
And wishes near me oft to be! 

How the mind of a poet must be happy. It is 
so frequently sung to by musical spirits; and 
when the afflatus is real and live, how must a 
poet be conscious that he is as a patient servitor 
to those heavenly messengers, who task him to 
write what they inspire him with. Surely, the 
everyday man does not keep note-books in his 
pocket, and fill them with songs that must sing 
themselves suddenly in the poet’s soul. I infer 
all this from the note-book Randolph left to my 
keeping, and allowed me to quote from when 
my discretion deemed best. 

The two following must have been jotted down 
in the woods. We instinctively feel that he had 
been superattentive to the wind’s tenderest tones- 

122 


Sweetbficr. 


— for no mortal could express the subtile music 
of the wind with better words than the following : 

From sunrise to the sundown slow 

When shadows lengthen along the shaw. 

The northwest winds zvould, soughing, blow; 

And shudder all the trees near to the haw! 
An endless soughing through the day — 

Before the barn, and round the hay. 

A blowing, bending tender birch tree small. 

To drift azvay 
The silvery spray 
Of the lone woodland waterfall! 

The one below formed itself while he was gaz- 
ing at one of those June clouds, that drift in lan- 
guorous ease what time the breeze has died, and 
the sun is lowering in the west. 

O, let me drift as yonder swollen cloud 
By the slow summer-breezes driven. 

To leave the world's ignoble voices loud 
Be sailing to the soul's far heaven! 

Yet another one confronts my eyes while pag- 
ing the note-book, which shows that thoughts to 
poets come arrayed in beauty free — and that 

\2Z 


Swcetbficf* 


chiselling, pruning, or criticising are futile to per- 
fect what enters as a perfect strain into the poet^s 
soul. Who can carp on the following short sweet 
theme ? 

Oh! dig my simple grave 
Near to the brooklet* s wave ; 

And let the dowers that on it grow, 

The brooklet* s softest murmers know. 

Does my gentle reader remember anything 
more simple, more tuneful, or more poetic than 
those four lines? Indeed, Randolph had the 
poetic gift as well as the musical. 

Thus the end of June was- before the door. 

What with social gatherings at Miss Eaton’s, 
and at Mrs. Lemuel’s, Randolph’s days had been 
spent most variously. He had completed copy- 
ing his opera-score; and thus he could think of 
composing new songs, new sonatas, and develop 
ideas for some romantic opera for his winter’s 
work. 

Besides the many young ladies and young gen- 
tlemen of the Hite, he had grown friendly with an 
artist and his family. He was an Englishman — 
with his fair wife and his little four-year-old boy. 
He owned a fine cottage with orchard and 

124 


Sweetbrief, 


grounds around, situated near the bridge that led 
over the gorge to Mrs. Eaton^s estate. 

The artist, Mr. Nambener, and Randolph had 
grown quite chummy with one another, the ar- 
tistic being the link between them. Randolph 
accepted many a supper at his house, and the 
evenings were passed in artistic memories, cozy 
chats in his studio, and congenial rambles in the 
transcendental world. 

Mr. Nambener was a man of about forty, of 
sturdy physique, and when aroused, showed him- 
self a very Hercules. A short while after his 

settling down in M , the villagers — that is to 

say, the country-folks — seemed to be jealous of 
his station in life, and, on a night, a band of 
strong men attacked him, as Mr. Nambener was 
on his way home from a call over in another quar- 
ter of the village. He warned them to attend to 
their own business; but they jeered at him the 
more. This aroused the valiant artist, and he 
struck wildly at the nearmost men, with his stout 
stick, felling one to the ground. Naturally as 
most country-folks prove to be, when the others 
were aware whom they were dealing with, they 
dispersed hurriedly. Since that time the artist 
was never molested by the envious men of the 
suburbs of M . 


Sweetbfier. 


Mr. Nambener reared his boy up with the ut- 
most care, and was a firm believer in the observ- 
ance of hygienic rules. 

'‘You see,'’ he said, “I do not let my young- 
ster sleep between sheets. To insure vigorous 
development, woolen blankets are important ; 
and, as you see for yourself, my boy is strong 
and stout for his age." 

He did not favor our habit of drinking every 
other minute — nor did he seem to like our cus- 
tom that, in a party of five or eight men, each 
should be obliged to treat the crowd — till, when 
leaving the bar each had eight drinks in his sys- 
tem. It was entirely contrary to sane judgment 
— and he only pitied them their ignorance of 
health-rules. 

He had been illustrating many years for the 
prominent New York papers — and he informed 
Randolph that his drawings were produced with 
utmost regard to truth ; in fact he had consulted 
old books for special costumes — and he used 
models for every object he introduced into the 
drawing. He was a conscientious draftsman. 

‘T try to be correct. My fellow-illustrators are 
just the opposite. They are careless and often- 
times show absolute ignorance of the things they 
have depicted." 


126 


Swcetbttcf< 


One night they were in his studio, and Mr. 
l^ambener read some bits of verse of his — they 
were very transcendental. 

“This is my spare occupation. I simply write 
down philosophical thoughts. Of course, I think 
poetry cannot be illustrated. It is too spiritual — 
and is an art by itself. What fools artists have 
made of themselves to try illustrating Omar’s 
poems or many of Keats’s poems. Poetry is to 
be enjoyed by the soul ; it is something ethereal, 
and illustrating cannot represent the philosophy 
of a poem.” 

Thus Randolph had found a congenial mind; 
and he delighted visiting such a man, who was an 
artist, a philosopher, a gentleman, and a wonder- 
fully strong-thewed knight, all in one. 

A month had passed. He had won the love 
of Nattie; had been made much of wherever he 
had called — ^liad found friends ; was a favorite 
with the young ladies; had accomplished works 
in his musical profession, and had mused alone in 
the woods where his soul felt sweet word-songs 
exhilarate him. June, with its roses, freshness, 
languor, its perfect days, had sighed farewell, 
and July burst warm, ripe, and luxuriant over 
one and all. 


t27 




CHAPTER THE SEVENTH 


The Hotel Fills ; Randolph Scrutinizes the Newly- 
arrived Guests and Finds a Fair, Blonde Girl to 
His Liking. 



SweetbMef< 


CHAPTER VII. 

The Hotel Fills; Randolph Scrutinizes the Newly- 
arrived Guests, and Finds a Fair, Blonde Girl to 
his Liking. 

This narrative is not written for persons who 
read to be only amused; or those searching for 
a sensational plot; or, finally, for a great ma~ 
jority who think that dialogue is paramount in 
any literary story. I write this for the pleasure 
that accrues from it — and at the same time, for 
the memory it causes in me — since I had been 
one of the actors then; however, I do not men- 
tion myself. I assume the part of an observer. 
As Randolph seemed to be the most talented 
among the dramatis personcB, and Nattie the 
sweetest girl among the number there, I thought 
it well to weave the incidents I have witnessed 
around those two. That I am able to give the 
inmost feelings of Randolph so minutely in this 
sketch is not astonishing, since we had talked 
over the summer^s episodes a year ago — and he, 
being a bosom-friend of mine, was not averse to 


Swcetbfief* 


confiding in me, and disclosing much that I had 
not observed. 

Guests had arrived. Some were persons and 
families that had been boarding there at previous 
seasons. Randolph recognized two of them, for 

he stayed at M three years ago. With 

these he renewed acquaintanceship, and recalled 
•old times. 

There was a family composed of the mother and 
her three daughters, the eldest a plump blonde, 
pretty, of about nineteen years old. Her two sis- 
ters were twins — just seven years younger. Then 
a young man of tall stature from Philadelphia; 
he was a college-fellow still, and thought of 
studying for the bar later. The other eight were 
wives and children of business men. 

In this assemblage, Randolph felt somewhat 
oppressed. He could no longer write on the 
verandah, nor sit with Nattie so frequently there; 
or, what was more disagreeable, those kissing- 
moments had to be discontinued. 

A country hotel during the summer-months 
is an amusing spectacle. There, a variety of 
types of humankind live together, elbowing one 
another, seeing each other every day for weeks 
in succession, and sometimes growing quite 


132 


Swcetbfief* 


familiar; oftentimes developing into acquaint- 
anceships to last for years. 

It is a comical sight for one who views this 
summer assemblage with disinterested eye; who 
only theorizes on the ditfefent specimens of hu- 
manity, and who judges them in a humorous 
way. For surely, there is a good deal of amuse- 
ment to be got from observing them, from noting 
the wide difference among them all, and the thou- 
sand and one actions that exhibit their station in 
life, their mental calibre, and their various idio- 
syncrasies. 

Music brings strangers together most natu- 
rally. Randolph's playing excited the curiosity 
of the guests. The public parlor was the place to 
which guests were welcome. It was easy to sit 
on a chair, to listen, and, when Randolph had 
finished, to say *‘Beg pardon! but you do play 
beautifully. What is the name of the piece you 
have played?” An answer to this breaks the ice, 
and from that moment on both parties think they 
have known each other for an age. 

In this manner most of the young ladies had 
made the acquaintance of Randolph. With the 
young men it was different ; they had met in hall, 
garden, or at some bar in the village. 

The most attractive girl was the eldest daugh- 

f33 


Swcctbrier^ 


ter of the mother with her twins. Miss Blonde' 
X., was quite a handsome young lady. Her 
skin was white and her cheeks rosy. For a 
blonde she had an unusually plump body; but 
this rather attracted than repulsed Randolph. 
Quavering reeds were not to his liking; he pre- 
ferred a fair, bunchy magnolia at times. So he 
conversed often with her. However, frequentl}r 
she had behaved rather shockingly in the parlor 
when no one was there except Randolph and the 
young ones — for she would tumble over the floor 
— and “raise a circus’’ without much notice. Not 
that she was a hoyden; she was too womanly 
in build and face for that; but her boisterous- 
spirits had the better of her at times, and as she 
was out on her holidays, she thought she could 
romp and “carry on” as she pleased. She was- 
conscious that she could win the men to her side 
— and often, it was apparent that some of her 
attitudes in the hall, or in the parlor, were the 
outcome of such self-consciousness. Still, it was- 
not obtrusive; it was evident that she had a trait 
of tender womanliness in her heart, that showed 
in her whole-souled eye; and her disposition,, 
though stormy for a moment, at once subsided to 
a sweetness that was bewitching and irresistible.. 

As all musicians are influenced by the tender' 

m 


Swectbfief. 


sex — and Beethoven bears proof to this verity,, 
for his heart was often enchained by the witchery 
of girls, and often a passing flirtation inspired 
him to compose some master-work — Randolph 
could not help flirting with Miss Blonde X., to 
the disconcertment of Nattie, who noticed it, but 
did not allow him to be aware of her jealousy. 

It so happened that during part of that month 
he had three beauties with whom to cope: dur- 
ing the morning he was able to enjoy Nattie's 
company; Miss Blonde X. favored him almost 
every afternoon with the sweetness of her con- 
versation, while Miss Eaton was his evening dis- 
sertation at her home. Besides these, he would 
walk occasionally with the Misses Lemuel, and 
a young lady, who lodged with her mother and 
sister at a private house. His time was, indeed, 
well filled up ; he knew it was his summer’s holi- 
day; then, why should he not accept such a 
paradise-like distribution of charms with a joy- 
ous and thankful heart? 

The first two days of the month had been un- 
pleasant : foggy during the morning, and during 
the afternoon it rained gently, off and on — 
enough to exasperate any nervous organization, 
and to upset a young man like Randolph, who 
was but one-third of his real self when the sun 


Sweetbfier. 


happened to be hidden away, and the azure sky 
totally shrouded in dense, wet clouds. How- 
ever sadness-impelling the day proved to be, it 
was warm, and the birds sang merrily in tree 
and bush. While seated alone on the verandah, 
as most had retired to their rooms, Randolph 
wrote the following mood : 


JULY THE SECOND. 

The trill and twirl of dulcet ring 
Within the chestnut-whip pie, seems 
More sweet than any earthly thing — 

A note a Persian hears in hashish-dreams. 
And while the rain does trickle down 
With satin-winds low moaning * tween — 
Methinks I lie at HahP marvellous town, 

Where beauteous Peri on their rose-lutes lean. 
And far, the winding river takes the gleam 
Of sallow glare with grey scuds o*er — 

Anon I hear the rustle of a stream 
That breaks its rush upon the shore! 

Oh! trill and twirl of dulcet ring 
No mortar s arts could e'er devise: 

M ethinks to live in Persia's marvelling 
While rain clouds drive witho'er the skies. 

m 




BY READING TO HIM ALOUD. 


Swectbfief, 


After the celebration of our Independence Day^ 
most of the husbands had left for the city, leaving 
their wives and children to enjoy to their fill 
the country air and its invigorating quietude. 

Then it was that Randolph could be more 
familiar with their daughters ; and he profited by 
such favorable opportunity, inasmuch as he took 
walks with them, had games of tennis, and now 
and then sat in the arbor under the gigantic 
chestnut trees halfway down the side of the 
bluff. 

“Embowered deep in tufted trees,’’ might well 
describe that rustic seat. 

With Miss Blonde he had grown quite ami- 
cable; shehad such a good heart, and, innocentof 
Randolph’s affection for Nattie, she soon became 
his thrall ; for she would show her good-hearted- 
ness by reading to him aloud ; by talking to him 
at the parlor-piano; and doing little kindnesses 
that tend to foster love to bud. He was aware of 
this, and his lyre, that hung always at his side, 
attested as much ; for here is a song as proof : 

How sweet to hear her reading — 

When all the leaves are moving — 

Some tale of friendship's pleading 
Rare mingled zvith heart's loving, 

137 


Swcetbrief< 


Oh! hut a word induced her to read to me. 
When matin-zephyrs spelled the chestnut tree. 

It seemed to me the words were swelling 
From her dear soul to mine; 

So could our mutual thoughts he welling 
From one sweet story-mine. 

It seemed our thoughts had melted, so to seem 
At the same time we saw the same rare dream. 

Oh! could our souls have wound so sweetly 
One in the other's thinking, 

While she ivas seeing, musing meetly 
Of the same thoughts I was drinking. 

Oh ! as two cloudlets listening to the wind 
They melt to one — and so sweet union find. 

So are the breezes, when they're blowing 
slowly 

With all the dowers, in sweet accord. 

And drive away the nook's gloom-melan- - 
choly, 

And there remains Dream's languid horde ^ 
Oh! so the dead souls with the waiting Angels ; 

wend, [ 

And censer's perfumes with the organ's musi& 
blend. T 


J38 


Sweetbriej*. 


’Tis sweet, when she is reading 

While matin-zephyrs fair are blowing, 

To know that she is leading 
My thoughts to some new knowing; 

And that her thoughts so fair with mine entwine: 
Even as breezes with the fragrant eglantine. 


From the secluded seat, they could see, below 
them, the bath-houses — and fifty feet farther 
down were moored six to eight rowboats. On a 
fair day of July, it was a rare pleasure to dream 
there; the quietude was supreme. Embowered 
under the broad chestnut tree and surrounded by 
pines and the tops of alder bushes, anyone who 
could be impressed by the solemnity of nature's 
calm would choose the seat as a fit place to find 
consolation, and, if he had woes to bear, it was 
there that balm was poured out to him, as the 
bird-songs rose, or while some gentle river-breeze 
melodized upon the myriad leaves and needles of 
chestnut and pine trees. Only rarely would some 
villager break the solitude by his short presence ; 
and more infrequent was the intrusion of some 
hotel guest, specially in July, when the real rush 
had not yet begun. 

This rustic nook had been the favorite retreat 


Sweetbner. 


of Randolph; and often he had worked there,, 
deriving its benefits. 

If Randolph enjoyed Miss Blonde’s society 
when his Nattie was engaged in her hotel duties, 
he found amusement in observing the eccentrici- 
ties of Miss Blonde’s sisters. Being twins, one 
could hardly tell who was who; and for identi- 
fication one wore a pink ribbon, while the other 
had a black sash around her waist. Both were 
unconventional, tall, somewhat gawky — which 
was natural, however, since they were only in 
their twelfth year of existence; and they in- 
dulged in a great deal of talking, sometimes prov- 
ing themselves in ill-favor with the guests. 
However, Randolph noticed them; he would 
gossip in the hall after meals; and, mornings, 
loiter with them in the office — or sometimes sit 
awhile on the verandah ; but they were too young 
to be admired, or be asked for a walk to the 
woods; children that they really were, they re- 
ceived but scanty attentions from all. 

They would strike wild attitudes in the parlors 
after breakfast hour, sitting stretched at full 
length on a sofa. Then again, in the office, the 
billiard-table was considered by them as a lounge, 
and there they would lie, or sit on the edge, be- 
having more like boys than girls. Still, when. 
140 


Sweetbtief* 


Randolph was in sight, strangely, they grew more 
decorous, and it seemed that he awed them, since 
his piano-playing had elicited from them utter- 
ances of admiration and pleased wonderment. 

It was at the end of the second week in July, 
on a Friday night, that the Methodist church 
fair was held. 

Randolph had written a song and had set it to 
music. Nattie was overjoyed when she was able 
to give it to the pastor. A raffle would be made 
— and she thought most people present would 
surely buy one ticket, or more, perhaps. She 
seemed conscious now that she owed him thanks. 
On the night of the fair they both went together. 

Now, as is generally the case when a young 
man has too many flowers to tend to, he will at 
some time or other find himself in unenviable 
situations. Miss Blonde and Randolph had by 
this time, though acquainted but sixteen days, 
grown attached to one another. She thought 
that she would be invited to attend the fair. 
However, Randolph left her alone at the hotel; 
and she, by accident, had seen him and Nattie 
walking up the street, both seeming happy. As 
girls will be, she was piqued, and felt her young 
heart burn; she was jealous. 

The fair proved a success. The small church- 

Hi 


Sweetbfief* 


garden had been festively decorated with Japan- 
ese lanterns, flower-garlands hanging from tree 
to tree — and with tables that bore a great variety 
of articles to be sold. A great number of the 
church-members, and a small contingent from the 
hotel, had assembled to help the church by gen- 
erous purchases. 

Randolph defrayed a small sum, and most of 
the things he gave to Nattie. 

The next day, when Miss Blonde came from 
the breakfast-table out on the verandah, she had 
lost her usual gaiety, and when she met Ran- 
dolph, she said: 

“Oh, I saw you last night. You have a belle 
here. Well, you can have her. I won't talk 
to you any more !" and she went into the parlor, 
where she sat in an armchair and began to look 
sulky and distraught. 

Randolph, quick at seeing his guilt, tried to 
palliate his cruel play — ^but Miss Blonde did not 
heed him; she was convinced that she had been 
superseded by Nattie. For some days they did 
not exchange a word. As the affair looked seri- 
ous, and Miss Blonde still persisted in being 
distant to Randolph, he was led to describe his 
feelings to his muse — she, patient as ever, listened 
to the following note: 

J42 


Swcetbricf^ 


Oh! that a vein of blood-red stone 
Should through our whitest marble-life 
So suddenly have grown! 

And tinged our friendship rife 
With separation, each to walk alone. 

The warbling birdie used to sing 
Sweet songs; it seemed like love'Ts lays. 

But now is sorrowing. 

And she no whisper-wordling says. 

Her laughter-friendship now hath taken wing. 

Oh! that a streak of greeny slime 
Should taint our life's quiet stream; 

So suddenly, a rime 

Of hatred filmed our dream — 

'And we must walk alone in sorrow^ s clime! 

From this copy the reader can learn how ex- 
aggeration of sentiment is kin to the poetic 
mind. Any other mortal, after Miss Blonde’s 
confession, would have done something to forget 
the rude rupture between the two — would either 
have imbibed freely or gone to some wild carous- 
ing at which sad girls made a conspicuous part. 
But poets, those that dream more than act, prefer 
143 


Sweetbi-ier* 


more ennobling pastimes ; and thus it is that the- 
world owes to strife, suffering, love-quarrels, and 
the innumerable other poignant situations in 
dreary life, all the world’s most famous poems 
that have been born. So poetry, as we see it in 
its genuine significance, is glorious. 

Yet Randolph could well afford being ignored 
by Miss Blonde, since each day his Nattie was 
there to make him forget the strange girl’s 
justifiable conduct. 

Those evenings with Nattie were rich in love- 
walks to the arbor. During the day Randolph 
wrote his compositions, and during the afternoon 
he went out to old haunts, or discovered new 
sights up the river. He had tried to win back the 
affections of the plump blonde girl — but to no 
effect ; she adhered to her rigid demeanor. 

This wore on Randolph’s sensitive heart. 

He knew it was a case of a girl’s jealousy; 
and he was assured that she must have fancied 
him on that account ; for jealousy is only aroused 
v/hen some loved object has been taken from one 
— hence jealousy is the truest test that love is at 
heart in the person who feels that strange feel- 
ing arise within the human frame. So a day or 
two after, he was inspired to pen down one im- 
mortal poem: 


Hi 


Swcetbfief< 


LOVE-TEARS. 

Oh I Love! thou fairy mystery, 

Thou enter' st in our hearts so unawares — 

And wander est there so silently. 

As breezes through the languid evening 
airs — 

Though thou hast joy for lovers — thou hast tears 
also — 

For jealousy may creep along, and bring sad woe! 

Oh! have I been a sting to thee, thou heart. 
That loved me through the summers morn- 
ing hours — 

When evening came, thou feltest one lone 
smart: 

To see me dream and smile with other 
dowers — 

Oh! sweet one — with thy tresses, fair as summer 
grain — 

Forgive the moment, when I gave thee grief, or 
pain! 

Met bought that tears bedewed thy bluey eyes — 
When thou didst see me with another maid. 

Those fair, true eyes, like clearest matin-skies. 
Or hued as love-eyes, blowing by the 
glade — 


Sweetbrier. 


Me thought to see thy nymph-like body melt azvay, 

By all the sorrow, wrought by Love's most dire 
dismay. 

Oh! can I think thou hast pressed on my lips 
Sweet, silent tributes of new-started love. 

And we had pondered, where the heeling sips 
The lily-honey — by fragrant cedar grove! 

Oh! had thy heart so melted into mine, that thou 

Hadst, unforethoughted, said within thee some 
strange vow! 

Oh! strange, strange Love! thou mystic, mus- 
ing Power! 

Why did she cease to talk to me, but shed 

Unseen, such tears, like dew within a dower — 
And cast low down from me her dreamy 
head! 

All when she saw me dream in eyes not her own 
choice — 

When, though I thought of her, I heard another^ s 
voice. 

O Jealousy! thou Hood of lover's tears. 

That flows within the languid maiden's 
dream — 

Thou dost sprout up a myriad fancy fears; 
And dllest lakes, that like wild fires seem, 
U6 


Swcetbwcf< 


Oh! maiden, with the daxen tress, and love- 
dower eyes. 

Forgive the hour, that drenched thee with love's 
passing sighs! 

Oh! change, from Hatem-bowers to sad, sad 
eve ; — 

O maiden, pout thy sober lips again! 

For my heart cannot know that thou dost 
grieve — 

Or bearest for me love's most poisonous 
pain! 

Oh! smile; and twitter, as of old, around my 
brow — 

For thou art lovely, and, me thinks, I see thee 
now! 

Oh! Love! thou sober mystery! 

Thou linger est in the hearts of all — of all! 

And singest there so languidly. 

That each, and everyone, must be thy thrall! 

Though thou hast joy, thou hast sharp pain and 
tears — 

For jealousy may lie close by — with doods of 
fears! 

However, no more than four days later Miss 

u7 


Swcetbwcf. 


Blonde thought best to surrender to the state of 
aifairs, and subdue her jealousy, and to reinstate 
the endearing relations between herself and Ran- 
dolph. 

He invited her to boatrides — played tennis, 
— and, of afternoons, both took long walks to- 
gether to the distant woods. 

On one of these walks. Miss Blonde displayed a 
strangeness of manner, that upset much of the 
admiration he had been entertaining towards the 
society girls of the present day. 

After they had reached the limit of the in- 
tended distance they desired walking, Randolph 
lay extended upon the mossy bank of the brook, 
and invited her to recline at his side ; this she did 
unhesitatingly. 

‘'And would you kiss me?” he asked. 

“Why, certainly. I know you are a gentle- 
man, from the way you acted on this walk. I 
can trust you!” she answered. 

Then, without any ado whatsoever, she rolled 
over upon Randolph — and, in this position, 
smothered him with quick kisses — ^to his delight 
and, at the same time, to his utter astonishment. 

“Oh! I like you, Ralphy!” she said. “Don’t 
think me one of those girls who excite the men at 
parties just for pastime, and when the man, 


Sweetbttef* 


wrought up to an affectionate mood, tries to kiss 
the girl, she slaps him in the face. Those girls 
are low, vulgar, and show their bad thoughts. 
But I kiss you because I like you 

This confession puzzled the musician. He had 
heard of that type of feminine depravity before, 
but to hear a girl herself stating it to a young 
man, was rather unexpected. 

“Yes, I know such girls exist; I think those 
girls ought to be caught at their own game; if 
I should ever meet with one of them, I should use 
force, and kiss her simply to reform her of her 
degrading manners.’’ 

“Oh, you don’t know how society girls will 
act. They are very depraved. I know all about 
it. I have lots of friends amongst them,” Miss 
Blonde blurted out in utter candor, as she rolled 
over upon the bank again, after the osculatory 
performance had ended. 

Randolph felt amused ; he had here a new type 
of girlhood. What a place for a novelist an hotel 
shows itself to be. Out in the country, girls are 
apt to unburden themselves of a number of city 
secrets, even to young men, whom they know will 
not communicate the disclosures to their friends. 

“This is a complicated world!” he thought to 
himself. 

t49 


Sweetbrier. 


'‘Well, you must have a store of stories in your 
memory,” he continued. 

“Oh, yes, I have!” she exclaimed. “But I 
won’t tell you all. No, it’s better to keep them 
away from the men. It would spoil the games of 
the girls — and they need diversions to kill time 
and she laughed out aloud. 

“Well, I can imagine how they could be,’^ 
said Randolph. 

They lay in the shade for quite ^ome time — 
then returned home through the woods. 

Since Miss Blonde had walked with Randolph 
alone afar, when at the hotel, she gave him full 
liberty to be familiar with her. Hence, when a 
crowd had gathered after supper on the verandah, 
chatting congenially, she did not mind when Ran- 
dolph sat close up to her, or when he, unobserved, 
let his foot casually touch her No. 3^4 shoe. In 
short. Miss Blonde had taken a liking to him, 
and, when such is the case in this civilized age, 
there is no convention of the stricter kind imag- 
inable. 

The last week of July was holding its glorious^ 
reign. 

Randolph had written on his opera now and 
then — it was progressing satisfactorily. 

When he found himself alone in the rustic 

i50 


SwcctbMCf< 


arbor near to the bluff — while most of the guests 
were busy with their own affairs, he would find 
company with his Muse. 

On one of these solitary occasions he penciled 
as fast as his hand could control the pencil, this 
quaint conceit : 


Deep in the mind^s confines 

I sazv some clouds he startled up; 

They were so grey with silvery lines. 

Bright as the rim of sunlit, mead-filled cup. 
That brought to Barbarossa's eyes 
Wild trains of armies, with the warriors* battle- 
cries; 

Lunging athwart my wildest dreams 
As dolphins lost within some wild coast-streams. 

Oh! they would dash as waves against the 
isles. 

Where St. Helena her battlements uprears; 

And they would crowd together to huge piles: 

As cromlechs, staunch for many, many 
years. 

And, while I summoned up a lion*s courage 
strong 

To oppose their downfall on my soul — 


Swcetbrief* 


I prayed! — and all would melt to god-like song. 

And, like some chronacol to restful goal. 
Those songs would lead me to the regions mild. 
Where dozver- groves lone-hermited souls unde- 
hied! 

Such instantaneous draught of imaginative 
verse seems to have been jotted down with light- 
ning-like speed, judging from the handwriting 
of the manuscript, and from the unusual fact 
that the lines contain but one erasure. Clear 
and swift his inspiration must have been — as 
regards the richness of diction and sumptuous- 
ness of images, the lines are worthy of reprint. 

If Randolph had rich hours with Nattie and 
Miss Blonde during the day, most of the nights 
were spent at Miss Eaton^s house, where parties 
of ten to twelve young people would meet, and 
chat and dance. 

Mrs. Eaton was a church-member. She had a 
pew in the Episcopal church ; and some Sundays 
Randolph would attend their services, merely as 
a social duty. 

The church was to have a fair by the middle of 
August. 

This was made known to him ; as it is usually 
advertised by church-members. Of course he 
\S2 


Sweetbnei*. 


said he would be glad to give a mite towards the 
church. It was impossible to get out of the ugly 
affair. He disliked church fairs; as we have 
already seen at the Methodist fair. Still, society 
demands many little unnecessary “musts” from 
the world, and to do contrary to them would 
mean utter isolation from its members. 

Miss Eaton had grown quite friendly with Ran- 
dolph. When they were alone at her house, her 
mother being in the parlor at the time, she had 
news to tell him that tingled his cheeks : 

“Oh, Mr. Shendon, we know all about it. 
When are you to send your cards? Nattie has 
bewitched you; no, I think, you are a heart - 
breaker. Poor Nattie; when she will awake, 
how I pity her.” 

“Why,” answered Randolph, somewhat awk- 
wardly, “I am not aware of it. Country village 
gossip, I suppose. She is a nice girl — but I never 
thought anything about my harmless talking to 
Miss Briggs. Strange, how villagers fabricate 
stories.” 

“Oh, but IVe seen you two in the street — just 
as if you were engaged!” and she laughed. 

Randolph felt a wee bit queered. This accusa- 
tion was unexpected. He must in future be 
more circumspect in regard to his actions; es- 
153 


Sweetbfie^ 


pecially in such a small village as M , he 

thought, before he led the conversation to other 
topics. 

Not alone had he had invitations to Mrs. 
Eaton's, but at the Misses Lemuel’s, and at the 
house of their married sister as well. 

His was a varied company those summer 
months. He knew most of the fine families in 
the village, and most of the hotel guests. A dull 
time was out of the question — there he had more 
people, as company, to visit, to entertain, to flirt 
with, than many a young man in a large city 
during the height of the winter season. 

With such triumphs to his credit, and such a 
swarm of people, divers of character, around him, 
lie hailed the month of August. 





CHAPTER THE EIGHTH 


In which Randolph Figunes as an Actor and Scores 
a Success. 


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Sweetbrier. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

In which Randolph Figures as an Actor, and Scores a 
Success. 

It was the first day in August. 

How few persons among the everyday mortals 
have even a slight idea as to what the months of 
the year actually signify! 

At school we learn by rote their names, but are 
not told their origin. When we are grown to 
middle age all we care to know is what deli- 
cacies we can enjoy during this or that month. 
Everyone has the oyster-saying on his or her 
tongue, but who is there, excluding astronomers, 
or historians, who can tell you that we modern 
people have changed the olden calendar, and that 
in Roman times, March was the first month, and 
not January, as it is nowadays ? 

Again, among business men who is there who 
has ever learned that the sidereal months are 
different from the common calendar-notations? 
All they know is that payments are due on the 
fifteenth or thirtieth of a month — and that Febru- 
157 


Sweetbfief< 


ary has twenty-eight days, and twenty-nine, when 
it is leap-year; but does any Shylock or a Rus- 
sell Sage know that, originally, February had 
twenty-nine days — ^but that the Romans, to 
honor Augustus, had added one day to their 
original Sextembre, which they named “August,’' 
and to do this had robbed February (which was 
their twelfth month) of one day? I hardly think 
they do. 

Moreover, when I casually review the addi- 
tions., the new nomenclature, that the months of 
the year have undergone, the calendar seems to 
me to be a complicated study for students. 

Is there not an amount of rank confusion in 
our calendar ? When young we believed so much 
— but now that we are grown up, we notice that 
man of old was very whimsical, and did very 
much to suit himself and his restricted knowl- 
edge. 

At first, he was more logical, and called 
the first month of the year when nature began to 
breathe life, all after the dead winter. March 
was more natural to choose as the first month 
than January. Their second month was named 
April, as then the blossoms began to appear. Their 
third month they called Maius, in honor of the 
pagan flower-feasts held under the auspices of 

m 


Sweetbfiet4 


Maya, the Indian goddess. Their fourth, they 
named after their emperor, or Junius; so with 
the following, after Julius; also their sixth 
month, which name, August, immortalized their 
victorious emperor, Augustus (for three months 
they ignored some attribute of nature’s progress 
and preferred making memorable their chiefs). 
Then they seemed to have grown weary of seek- 
ing appropriate names for the following months, 
for September, October, November, and De- 
cember, stand merely for the seventh, eighth, 
ninth and tenth month of the year. Their 
eleventh month was called after Janus, a heathen 
god ; and February, the last month in their year, 
was named after a certain feast: Lupercalia, or 
Februalia, signifying a purifying. 

That was their calendar; but Julius Caesar 
changed it somewhat, and he preferred to begin 
the year with the olden eleventh month, which is 
January. 

We moderns still adhere to the Julian calendar, 
and nobody seems to care, since no one has sug- 
gested any new succession of the months. 

We must not forget that there are other na- 
tions that count the months entirely differently 
from what we do. 

Speaking mythologically, I pity Mr. Year, 

159 


Swcctbficr. 


who has been nicknamed by men, and has re- 
ceived a hundred different birthdays from differ- 
ent races and tribes through the ages. All of 
this goes to show that, if we think calmly over 
this confusion in calendars, we poor mortals are 
perfectly ignorant as to what time really is; we 
do not know exactly which is the first day of the 
year, the earthly or the solar year, since it has 
been merely a matter of man’s whim to form the 
calendar. Were I to originate a new calendar 
I might claim September as the first month of 
the year, since I observe then, that fruits have 
their prominency, and as I enjoy eating fruits, I 
might as well immortalize my relish-time by 
starting the year in that season. Then, again, 
since my triumphs seem to have found their 
culmination at the time when Leo enters the 
zodiac, to let my name go down the ages, I would 
strike out August and write Loseat in its stead. 
And so on to the verge of derision. 

Oh, happy and proud those men of yore must 
have been, to have named everything and every 
condition. We modern men are at a disadvan- 
tage: we simply must learn what they have 
named for us ; there is no glory left us to invent 
a new calendar. However, we might take it into 
our heads to devise an individual calendar, and 
\6Q 


SweetbMCf< 


each would reckon the year's birth from a special 
day, and then name the months to suit himself; 
but what a number of years there would be ! To 
imagine such a state of affairs is worse than be- 
holding armies of giant crabs, charging over a 
desert, to devour one ! 

Be this as it may, Randolph knew it was . 
August ; to his mind it meant midsummer, days 
of heat, sultriness, lowriness; glorious nights, 
and fruitfulness. 

On the fourth of August a surprise was given 
him. 

After dinner, while the verandahs were 
crowded with guests who had just left the din- 
ing-room and were seated at ease, and while Ran- 
dolph and three young ladies were laughingly 
chatting with each other on the road in front of 
the hotel, up came Miss Eaton and Miss Lemuel, 
escorted by Mr. Lemuel, Jr. 

‘‘Oh, Mr. Shendon, we have a favor to ask of 
you r Miss Eaton exclaimed. 

“Why, what can it be, I wonder? I'll do it, 
if it lies within my power !" Randolph answered, 
somewhat startled. 

“Oh, I'm sure you can. We want you to take 
a part in a short farce, to be given for the Epis- 
copal church fair. You cannot refuse!" 
t6t 


Swcctbrier, 


“But I have never acted before, and my mem- 
ory is wretched these years. I believe I must 
decline such an honor, Miss Eaton !’" he said, 
inwardly feeling flattered by such a request. 

“You musicians are gifted beings — I know you 
could act the part very satisfactorily^ You are 
to act an old gentleman. You know you said you 
felt yourself so old ; now you can actually be an 
old gentleman. Oh, you cannot refuse us ! 
Now, we are to rehearse in a week from to-day. 
Come over to my house to-night, and we all will 
be there, and we can discuss the parts more fully. 
Now, don’t forget. No, we can’t stay. I must 
get back home for dinner. Mamma is waiting 
for me. Don’t forget ; to-night at eight !” 

“All right. Miss Eaton. I'll try my best,” 
Randolph said, as the three left and walked up 
the street. 

Nattie, who had been near, said: 

“Oh! how funny it will be to see you actl 
Have you ever acted before ?” 

“No, never. I’m afraid I’ll be a failure. Still, 
to brave it, is better than to give it up without 
some trial,” he answered. 

To Randolph, this was a supreme moment of 
his life. He could distinguish himself in another 
branch of the arts. 


i62 


Sweetbrief* 


He knew he had been quite an actor in his 
schooldays, as all imaginative young minds are; 
and he was sure of some success on the boards. 
He had never acted studied parts. When a boy 
and at college, he was acknowledged a good im- 
proviser of dramatic situations and of unusual 
phrases that he put into the mouths of the prin- 
cipal actor ; but if he could memorize a prescribed 
part seemed problematic in his point of view. 
However, he had courage and a little conceit, 
which are the spurs that put fire into the unruly 
steed, Success. 

That night the eight persons interested in the 
farce met at Miss Eaton^s. 

All were known to one another. 

These were the Lemuels, Mr. Nambener, the 
artist, and a cousin of Nattie's, who was to take 
one of the minor parts. As prompter, the young 
organist of the church, who was also a profes- 
sional reader, was chosen. 

Miss Eaton was the manager, and at once the 
star of the female roles. 

''Now, here are the copies. The best way is 
to read the book through first — then to read your 
special part several times. On next Wednesday 
we all shall read from the book, while acting as 
best we can. Then the following week we can 
t63 


Sweetbfien 


rehearse in the parlor. The week after, we can 
try to act on the stage.'' With these words Miss 
Eaton adjourned the meeting. 

After dancing and flirtations, the party was 
broken up near midnight. 

When Randolph arrived at about a block away 
from the hotel, he was suddenly checked by a bril- 
liant light flashing in front of him. 

It was a colored girl that held a lighted lamp 
up high — and she stood smiling in front of him, 
as though to impede his further progress. When 
his dazed eyes grew accustomed to the glare, he 
noticed back of the colored girl, a buxom country 
girl, dressed simply but in gaudy colors. 

This dumfounded Randolph; was this a new 
way of robbing in the country? Strange high- 
waymen these, he thought! He was expecting- 
to see a rogue leaping from out of the dark — but 
he felt relieved when he heard these words, ut- 
tered in the dead of night, in a village fast asleep 
and noted as being a very moral village at that. 

“Why, going home so late? Won't you go 
with me; just around the next block. Come; 
you remember me !" 

At once Randolph recognized Cora. He was 
so astonished, that the event disgusted him. 

Was he in Paris, where such is rather common,. 

J64 


Sweetbfier* 


or in some country town in Spain, where it is a 
custom, and nothing bad is thought about it? 
But he knew he was in a prohibition village of 
the United States, where alj were so goody- 
goody, so law-abiding and all that ; why, he could 
not believe his eyes ; he must be dreaming. But 
all was true, substantially living before him. 

‘'No, Cora, not to-night. I'm tired. Some 
other time. Good-night," he answered. 

This incident, so unexpectedly thrust before his 
very gaze, opened his eyes: he was aware that 
hypocrisy is abroad in prohibition villages; he 
knew from that night forth that America is not so 
holy, and all that, as Americans make others be- 
lieve, and that evil tendencies dwell hidden in 
mankind the world over. 

That Wednesday night was indeed quaint. 

In the parlor of Mrs. Eaton all the to-be-actors 
had assembled. 

There was great excitement manifested among 
the participants ; and even Mrs. Eaton, who was 
not enlisted on the cast, seemed to think that, 
though she was not acting, she at least could 
give valuable advice to the young people. 

Among the young ladies, Miss Eaton had most 
semblance of histrionic powers. Miss Lemuel 
was not awkward, but she failed in her effective 
t65 


Sweetbrief* 


reading, often throwing stress upon the wrong 
word. Of course, Miss Eaton, sentient of her 
superiority, would correct her. 

Mr. Nambener, the artist, having attained to 
his fortieth year, did his part well. Randolph, as 
soon as he had entered into the spirit of his lines, 
acted as though he had won honors on the stage 
before. He seemed to grasp the situations at 
once. It was second nature with him. 

The others tried their best and improved, after 
having been corrected by Miss Eaton^s, and, now 
and then, Randolph’s advice. 

This reading the parts from the printed copies 
was preliminary work. How the young people 
would acquit themselves of the parts they had 
memorized, this being more difficult, was a matter 
of conjecture. 

During that week, Randolph learned his lines 
-out in the woods, or along the river. Soon he 
was able to recite his part to the trees. 

He was astonished how quickly his memory re- 
tained the words — he was astonished, inasmuch 
as he had thought that he was unable to learn 
anything by heart ; but, it seems to me that when 
sympathy is shown one, or that when one is con- 
scious that he is doing anything that will be 
appreciated by others, work becomes easy — and 
t66 


Swcetbrier^ 


-our latent powers emerge, as it were, from the 
recesses of our mind. 

Stimulation is requisite for any valuable per- 
formance; where a certain amount of sympathy 
is lacking, the most gifted person will not be able 
to show his powers to the best advantage. May 
we not infer that this is the cause that actors, 
after receiving profuse applause from an appre- 
ciative audience, perform with more zest, with 
better spirit, and, oftentimes, surprise the auditors 
with the delivery of their parts and their more 
passionate expressiveness? 

At all events, Randolph had found that he pos- 
sessed memory; and he was confident that his 
acting would not prove a failure. 

During that week, a Reverend had arrived at 
the hotel. He was a widower, sixty years of age, 
and seemed hale and hearty. He had lost his 
wife some six years ago, and he seemed to be 
not quite able to control his grief, for, as some of 
the people said, he occasionally would be soft to 
the lady guests, and oftentimes unburden his 
woes before their hearts. Randolph noticed him. 

Conversation at the hotel would often center on 
the Episcopal church fair ; that theatricals would 
figure prominently, created anticipations, for it 
was not common that a church, especially one that 
i67 


Sweetbrier* 


Aras so high in its ceremonials, gave theatrical per- 
formances. The cause of this was due to Miss 
Eaton’s histrionic turn of mind; as she was one 
of the prominent members of the church, natu- 
rally her word was valued, and her suggestions 
were not ignored. 

The rehearsals at the Hall were highly enter- 
taining to Randolph. 

The first one was noted for its comical inter- 
ruptions from Mrs. Eaton, who from the front 
row of the auditorium would now and then ex- 
claim: 

“Mr. Shendon, louder! I can’t hear what you 

say 1” or : “Why, Mr. ; act more naturally. 

Don’t stand there like a telegraph-pole. Forget 
yourself 1” 

Many of her exhortations created laughter 
among the actors, who thought that they were 
acquitting themselves well, considering the short 
time they had used to learn their parts in. 

At the third rehearsal, all were surprised how 
smoothly the scenes had been acted. They felt 
assured of a fair success upon the evening of the 
public representation. 

At this stage of events Randolph played his 
part with such ease, that he was able to prompt his- 
friends when they failed to remember their cue.. 

m 


Sweetbrier* 


He knew the entire farce, and had acquainted 
himself with the words of the other characters; 
and, having gone through three rehearsals, it 
seemed as though he played with his cues and 
those of the others. 

Randolph seemed to have been gifted with his- 
trionic ability, as well as with his other talents. 
Before that time, he had not been aware that he 
possessed such; but now he knew of his new 
power, and it was rather pleasing to him to have 
discovered it. 

Miss Eaton was the most talented among the 
young ladies. She took the leading character, 
which had to represent a middle-aged spinster,, 
she of the meddlesome sort — unprepossessing — 
still, dressed in such a way as to counteract the 
offensiveness of her ungainly features, her tooth^ 
less mouth, and her nervous movements. Miss 
Eaton did her part admirably. 

Mr. Nambener, the artist, acted fairly well, 
excepting the laxity of his memory, which put 
the others out, at times. He seemed to have 
taken but partial interest in the affair ; and 
therefore had not studied his part with proper 
enthusiasm. Often, he had to be prompted. 

Miss Lemuel was successfully coached through 
the rehearsals — ^but her timidity made her pos- 
169 


Sweetbwef. 


tures seem somewhat awkward. She had an in- 
delible smile on her features, and, often, this 
would broaden into sudden and unforeseen laugh- 
ter, that spoilt the performance badly. 

Of the other actors, it might be said that they 
did their best; however, their minor parts were 
easy, and depended more on acting than on 
speaking. 

The farce was, '‘A Lucky Sixpence,” written in 
London in the forties. 

At the hotel, all of Randolph’s acquaintances 
took interest in the forthcoming church fair. 

Miss Blonde said she would attend, and added, 
that she would not be accountable for what she 
would do should Randolph make a break. 

“Oh, I know my part, Blondie — why, I actu- 
ally am prompter and actor in one,” he said. 

“If that’s the case, I shall have to keep my 
laughter for one of the other actors. For I know 
it will not be a success. I enjoy seeing others 
making fools of themselves,” and her roguish 
eyes were all aglow with mischief. 

Randolph imagined hearing her jeering at the 
performance ; and he could expect it from such a 
girl as Blondie — for she had disported herself in 
a rather hoydenish manner at the hotel, quite 
frequently. 


m 


Swcetbrfcf. 


“Well, if you do, I won’t object. You can? 
have your way!” and there it rested. 

Nattie was sure that Randolph would succeed. 
Both continued their night walks to the rustic 
arbor, and sometimes, during the afternoon they 
would saunter to the woods. They seemed to un- 
derstand one another better — truly, Randolph 
was steering his boat toward a lonely grove, where 
amorosity would be kindled, and perhaps love be 
lit, till a tie would unite them for aye. 

The night of the church fair had arrived. The 
Hall was well crowded, some four hundred 
people being present. 

The actors were a little nervous. 

The curtain was rung up. 

Randolph and Miss Lemuel were the first ones 
to appear. 

Randolph was to have taken a written letter in 
his pocket. When his time came to read it to 
Miss Lemuel, he was nonplussed to notice, when 
he took some papers out of his coat pocket, that 
the letter was missing. He had to improvise 
right there. He did not have a stage-fright ; but, 
as if nothing was awry, he spoke his letter in a 
calm way. 

Fortunately, Miss Lemuel’s cue was, “What do 
you say to that?” hence the new version of the 

m 


SweetbMer* 


letter did not worry her, and the play went on 
smoothly. 

That Randolph acted naturally and at the same 
time with artistic knowledge, was observable in 
the easy postures he took when he was not speak- 
ing his part. 

Others would have stood rigid, or at least, 
remained on the same spot. Randolph, while 
Miss Lemuel conversed withMr.Nambener, after 
he had made his appearance on the stage, would 
walk about, or examine the flower-pots that were 
put at the side of the stage to resemble a garden. 
Then he would casually sit upon the bench, take 
out his handkerchief, replace it in his coat-tail 
pocket — then glance up to the speakers. He 
seemed at home upon the stage ; he was not awk- 
ward — and, so far, was acting more naturally 
than his friends, who would stand looking at 
each other as though they were reciting a piece at 
a Sunday-school festival. 

The next scene brought in Miss Eaton. She 
was all bustle — a real spinster, desirous to be 
heard, seen and commented upon. Her per- 
sonation was perfect. 

When Mr. Nambener, and Miss LemueAs 
brother were speaking their parts, Mr. Nam- 
bener stopped short in his lines. At once, Ran- 
J72 


Sweetbfiet* 


dolph, who noticed it, quickly went up to him, 
and whispered his lines to him, so adroitly, that 
the audience could not be aware that he was 
prompting. 

The prompter in the wings was surprised; 
and sent an appreciative smile to Randolph. 

Randolph made his exit to the right then, while 
Miss Lemuel and Mr. Nambener were talking 
love. 

When Randolph made his reappearance, he 
came up with a lighted cigar. He puffed non- 
chalantly while he spoke — and when the porter 
came in with Mr. Nambener’s heavy trunk, his 
exclamation : Why, is it loaded ? Quick — take 

care !” was admirably entoned. 

All of the succeeding acting went on smoothly 
— and now and then applause rang from the audi- 
ence. 

At the end, when the villain had been arrested, 
the lovers reunited, and Randolph had showered 
his blessings on the two, and Miss Lemuel stood 
aside with an astonished expression on her face 
— Randolph walked forward, near to the foot- 
lights, and, as was the custom in England dur- 
ing the last century, addressed the audience, 
thanking them for their indulgence and kind 
attendance. 


f75 


Sweetbfier* 


Then, as the audience applauded loud and' 
long, the curtain dropped. 

The fair was a great success. The actors 
were complimented. 

Next night, a sale was held in the same Hall. 

Randolph bought an expensive handkerchief- 
case, nicely embroidered. 

Miss Blonde and a number of the hotel guests, 
were present. Of course, she made herself con- 
spicuous by some loud remarks, and tried to guy 
Randolph; but he put an immediate stop to it,> 
by ignoring her altogether that night. 

When he had arrived home, he looked for Nat- 
tie, and gave her his purchase, which she accepted 
at once. He was glad she did not decline taking 
the gift. He felt assured that she was his, with- 
out doubt. 

In the Saturday’s M edition, the theatri- 

cals were commented upon; but whereas all the 
other actors received two lines or more of crit- 
icism, strange to say, Randolph was dismissed 
with the short comment, viz. : “Mr. Shendonwas 
a natural old gentleman.” That was all. It 
seemed uncharitable to him. He acted more 
with the professional’s understanding, and na^ 
doubt knew his and their parts better than any of 
the actors. However, it was the same old story 

m 


Sweetbrien 


of the most proficient receiving but scanty praise, 
whereas the others, who had no real knowledge 
nor inborn talent, were heralded abroad as mar- 
vels. and unusual performers. 

The success of the theatricals, and the repeated 
requests of the church-members and of some of 
the villagers, induced Miss Eaton to have a second 
performance of the farce. 

Two weeks later the Hall was crowded to wit- 
ness a repetition of the play. 

The success was equal to that of the first night. 
Randolph played with the farce so marvellously,, 
that now and then, to heighten the effect, he im- 
provised lines to his part right on the stage while 
performing. The others had not forgotten their 
roles, but Mr. Nambener, at times, would hesi- 
tate, and once, broke down utterly. 

For all of Randolph's superior playing he 
reaped no glory, no special praise ; nor could the 
audience feel that his acting was more natural 
than that of the others. 

But that is the fate of superior minds. Mil- 
ton, entoning his wondrous harmonies, was ig- 
nored by his contemporaries. Shakespeare, 
while walking the streets of London town, had 
never been noticed in any of the then extant 
papers. Shelley, outsoaring all the votaries of 
X75 


Swecihticr* 


song of his time, could not find a publisher. 
Even in our day, Saltus, the supreme singer, died 
in the glooms of his obscurity; and Whitman, 
while living, was refused insertion of his original 
poems in our leading magazines, whereas those 
facile songsters, like Sherman, Riley, Bonner, 
and others who never rose above verse-writing 
and never essayed efforts of sustained flights, 
they found a ready market in all papers through- 
out the country. 

Why such should be, is an enigma ; the modern 
Sphinx, were she, he, it, to be questioned, would 
.simply gape, and show signs of weariness. 

The theatricals over with, society at M 

•continued their dancing-parties of nights. 

Church fairs had had their day. There was 
nothing of importance going on in the village. 

A few concerts at the D House had been 

given, but they were of the ordinary country 
kind, and would not be considered by any city- 

press reporter, although the M Weekly 

managed to devote a column and a half to the 
affair. 

August was well nigh over. The heat was 
excessive, at times making the mercury climb up 
to 102° F. in the shade. 

Nattie was, as ever, the conscientious lady of 

M6 


SwcctbHcf. 


the house, and tried her best to do the thousand 
and one wishes of the guests. 

The young twins were ever in evTaence : sitting 
on the billiard table in the office, lying pictur- 
esquely on the sofas in the parlors, thumping on 
the piano at intervals, and behaving obstreper- 
ously wherever they would be. 

Randolph amused himself, while attending to 
his opera, when his mind inspired him. 

He was well contented with his conquests, and 
prided himself on his success with the young 
ladies at the hotel and in the village. 




Treats of Music, Its Charms and Limitations j also 
Introduces Randolph as a Mesmerist. 

S 

) 





■' s 




I J 












Swcetbrier, 


CHAPTER IX. 

Treats of Music, Its Charms and Limitations; also In- 
troduces Randolph as a Mesmerist. 

Long past, the cymbal called the maidens to 
blithest dances. Later, the stringed instruments 
were heard ; and, after that, the piano forte was 
born, with its almost limitless range of tones, and 
its exhaustless possibilities of execution for the 
performer. 

Bach exhausted harmony. Schubert and 
Schumann were princes of melody, Beethoven 
and Wagner, gods of the symphony and opera. 
And to-day music is still tasked to create new 
harmonies, melodies, and intricate combinations 
of tones. 

How very few among the millions of people 
appreciate the highest music ! 

Music is something sacred, transcendent. He, 
who feels glorious at eventide, when the coolness 
falls upon the tranquil earth — whose emotions 
exult at the moon-rise through whitening storm- 
clouds in midsummer — who can dream when 

m 


Swectbtief< 


seated at a brookside in the mountains hoar — such 
a soul is capable of enjoying Chopin, Beethoven, 
and the other masters of classical music. 

But these are a few only whose minds can be 
led away from mercenary existence; — what a 
small number really feel the works of Schumann,, 
Wagner ! 

Randolph was aware that musicians live in a 
world all their own. He had often sought soli- 
tude in the wilder nooks of the glen, so as to for- 
get the people of the village. Where he had sat 
with Sweetbrier, days ago on the island of that 
glen, he would write his melodies. Two enor- 
mous white pines grew in the center. Under 
their boughs the ground was grown over with 
long, thick moss, as soft as velvet. Just fifty feet 
away from the pines, the bank of the brook went 
sheer, five to six feet, down to the babbling 
waters. In fact, he was surrounded by the mur- 
murs of the brook, and when the wind blew, the 
needles of the pines gave forth gentle, liquid 
tones, soft and sweet as were heard by “Ladon’s 
lilied bank.’' 

The island was about 300 feet long by 175 feet 
wide. It was like a fastness ; high grass grow- 
ing, with fair flowers shooting above, a few oaks 
at the upper end, while various forest trees in 
J82 


Sweetbfier. 


numbers kept the island cool and shady, and filled 
with hidden corners, the heaven for lovers 
young. 

In such a fascinating retreat Randolph 
wrought his best. 

His idea of music was set forth in a running 
sentence which was his conclusive definition : 

The emotions of the heart and soul into sound to 
resolve, 

Is music's highest and final endeavor. 

And he practiced what he preached. 

The potent charm of music is the transporta- 
tion of the soul to higher realms of thinking. 
He who is base, loves not music. And, surely, 
those that are enamored by classical melodies or 
symphonies, are above the grovelling masses. 
There is music in the soft murmur of the brook ; 
but music has no abode in the modern rag-time, 
the coon songs, or the popular tunes. Music 
means a dream of higher spheres ; there is senti- 
ment in the tune of the evening wind, and feeling 
in the rune of the river ; but there is no sentiment 
in the rag-time, or in a tune the gamin whistles — 
it is weak humor, — which is not music. Only a 
few enjoy true melody; however, the Magyar, 
^83 


Sweetbfier. 


the German, the Italian — they, and perhaps others 
— have the inborn feeling; therefore, produce 
real music. 

Randolph was happy in such a natural study, 
with the free air fanning his face, the many song- 
sters singing in the woods, and far from the noise 
of gossip and fruitless amusement. 

When he had composed his allotted pages, he 
would walk to the bank and gaze at the rushing 
waters of the brook, which was wide there, and 
formed several spacious pools, fair for bathing. 
He would then sit down on the grass, and dream ; 
and often commit rare reveries to paper, such as 
Ihe one below : 


/ would forevermore 
My loving soul outpour 
In music, soft and sweet, 

At my own love's fond feet. 

Till she, in words melodious. 

Her love to me doth say. 

So play — and listen, by Love enwounden 
Throughout the sweet, long day. 

I would to play fair tunes. 

While gazing at my rosebud-love; 

m 


Sweetbfier* 


Till all the months turn Junes 
-And all the years but summers prove. 

So evermore fair music* s sweetness 
With lover’s touch, and lover’s deetness. 
Upon her soul rain languidly — 

Till she my own true love will he. 


I would, till the earth will fall. 

To he to Music truest thrall; 

And play in gaze of my true love 
Who seems a rose in Hatem’s grove. 
So play, and listen to words melodious 
That she to me doth say; 

By rosy Love he sweet enwounden. 
Throughout the sweet, long day! 


Upon one of the hills of the cemetery was a 
rustic arbor ; Randolph had sat there many a time 
during the past weeks. The view upon the valley 
it afforded he drank in almost with a kind of 
sensate affection. On Sunday morns specially 
he loved to wander through the beautifully laid- 
•out cemetery to that arbor — and there he wor- 
shiped the beauties of God’s works. And there 
lie wrote : 


f85 


Sweetbrier* 


ELEGY. 

Here is a rolling hill, full hundred feet 
Above the winding rive/s How; 

Here many a one hath, in his winding-sheet 
Renounced to mortal's tears and woe! 


Here are fair vocal holts of birch and pine, 

Wild sweeps of grass, with wild-Howers hued. 
Here are the tombstones, decked with brier and 
vine 

Where many a one a sweeter life had viewed. 


Here sing the birds their cheery songs of love; 

The bees seek for the honeyed flowers. 
Here lie the remains of mortals who did prove 
That life is a road to fairer bowers. 


Here bloom the bushes glowingly and fair — 
While nature cheers for mortal's joy; 

Here are the graves of many a happy pair; 
Of mother, sister, child, and boy. 

And this: 

m 


Sweetbricr. 


ONE SABBATH-MORN. 

May they before the altar stand — 

I wander o^er the voiceful land; 

Or to the quiet acres go 
Above the glassy river's How. 

Oh! here, beneath the azure sky. 

Many a songster I descry; 

Many a tune, so hymn-like. Hows — 

To melt my world-wrought woes! 

Many a sermon on the air 
Pronounces God's creations fair: 

Before me I do see them stand, 

Or flash across the farmed land. 

And hear the lambkins bleat so sadly. 

Or hear the throstle carol madly. 

Or see the stems of maples, tipped 
With new-born leaves, so rosy-lipped! 

Or worship at the heart of nature 

That is the fount of life for every creature. 

And see the azure hills afar, 

Where never ravaged dearth, or war! 


Indeed, Randolph employed his Sabbath morn- 
ings fruitfully. A poet needs no sermons ; he is 
a preacher himself. Could the interior of a cold 
\Z7 


Sweetbficf< 


church have inspired his soul to such flowing, 
tender utterances as the above ? 

If poets are “the unacknowledged legislators of 
the world/^ as Shelley wrote, poets are also the 
unacknowledged ministers of God. They sing 
no dogma, but carol forth the very thoughts of 
the Almighty. 

On one other day Randolph, dreaming in that 
arbor, caught the sounds of evening down the 
river; and his pencil immortalized them at once. 

EVENTIDJ^ 

There is music down the river; music. 

Such the swain loves, when the fields 
Golden glow, and ripe are all the cereals. 

When the summer plenteous harvest yields. 

Music — and the clouds, that float in the heavens. 
Quietly float in the river*s bed; 

^As the skies were in the glassy river — 

Though with clouds as overhead. 

Music — jocund strains, as when the piper 
Leads the dance to merry turn; 

Simple sounds come from the downward river. 
Singing, though the player would to yearn. 

m 


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THERE IS MUSIC DOWN THE RIVER 



Swcetbner* 


Songs! — no ripple on the cloud-sprenf river. 

Quiet — as the altar, when it knells; 

Save the lilting bird, the bank-trees rustling — 
Far rifts, rushing back of dells. 

'Evening mutely doats o'er holt and fresh field — 
Tenser strains dll the fair scene; 

Strains the soul loves, in deep communion 
With the spirit, born of Heaven's sheen. 

'There is music down the river — music. 
Seraph-melodies within our soul. 

How elated! while from down the river. 

Songs come of its far, wide goal! 

Oh ! how the soul of a poet must be glorious.. 
No wonder that he turns away from pride, pelf, 
and fatuous pleasures. After all, the soul is 
something apart from the brain or mind. And a 
musician, one like Beethoven or Chopin, is the 
poet of melodies. Each composition of theirs is 
a poem. And Randolph was two in one; the 
miracle of it! and yet, only a few seemed to 
value him. 

Among his papers I find a poem he must have 
written during June. As it is of strange sweet- 
ness, it will be appreciated, if I insert it here. 

m 


SwCCtbMCf< 


THE FIREFLY DANCE. 

Oh! meet me by the haunts of the fireflies 
When the June moon floats the clouds among. 

Low in the hollow where the brooklet plies 
Its winding course through the meadow 
young 

We shall lie upon the flowery lawn asleep, 

And look towards the grove that hides the 
brook; 

For there, all in and out, the fireflies keep 
Their mystic dances, sacred to that nook. 

Then, loved one, see them dance in flickering 
way: 

Zigzagging — flashing — Against the dark high 
trees. 

Each lighting its mysterious lamp, whose ray 
Seems like a light-flash of the Pleiades. 

Then gaze! — and be entranced at how they 
weave 

Their intricate dances in the moonlighfs glow. 

And wonder how, at moments, they do leave 
Their lamps unlit, to vanish; whereto? none 
doth know. 

'Oh, then the woods seem live with diamonds 
sparkling: 

m 


Sweetbrier* 


Rare diamonds, dancing mystic dances weird, 
.Flash, and darkness, seem an arabesque so dark- 
ling 

Where living £res move fantastic, fast and 
slow. 

Here let us lie until the moon falls low 
Beyond the southern vales and mountains dark. 
Then to the death-bird's call, my loved one, hark! 

Whom long ago the superstitious swains had 
feared. 

And, with one last look towards the iireiiies' 
dancing. 

Let's up! and homeward go; still keeping well 
The mystic diamond-flicker and its weird strange 
spell. 

That was a while ago our wond' ring minds en^ 
trancing! 


Thus Randolph filled in his spare moments. 
His idle moments were golden blown; in them 
he proved himself a being drinking the nectar of 
heavenly spirits — and, by listening to the whis- 
pers in his soul, an example to others, who fill in 
their leisure-time by gambling, gossip, and 
worldly pleasures. 

Those who laugh at poets show their low, 

\ 9 \ 


Sweetbrief4 


earthy nature. To be a poet is being befriended 
by sweet, pure spirits. 

After the theatricals, and fairs had served their 
purpose, the entertainments at the hotel were 
growing uninteresting. Many of the guests had 
asked Randolph if he could not devise some new 
distraction. He suggested charades; and for 
several evenings he directed many of them. 
Weary of these, the young people wanted some^ 
thing novel. At last Randolph came to their 
rescue in announcing that he would give a mes- 
meric seance. 

Of course, this was unexpected. No one had 
ever thought that the musician could possibly be 
a mesmerist. This was a discovery on their 
part. Belief in his powers seemed absurd. 
They showed their incredulousness by passing 
remarks that he was to fool them. However,, 
he bore the brunt of their bantering chatter, and, 
to show himself in his new character, he in- 
formed them that he was willing to entertain the 
guests the next evening. 

When a college-student, Randolph had discov- 
ered his mesmeric power. He had made his first 
essay on a freshman, and his success was as- 
sured. 

On either side of the main hall was a parlor- 

\n 


Sweetbrfef. 


That evening he requested the guests to be seated 
in one of them, while he would be in the other 
with a young man. This was necessary, since 
absolute stillness is requisite while putting the 
subject under the mesmerist’s control. 

The young man who gave himself up was tall 
and strong. Randolph requested him to be 
seated, and told him that he should sleep and try 
to forget that he was in the parlor. When the 
subject’s eyes were shut, and after three minutes, 
Randolph* began his passes over the subject’s 
forehead, then down his temples — then, while 
Randolph fixedly gazed into his face, he made 
passes downward from the subject’s shoulders to 
his knees, several times.. This effected, Ran- 
dolph stepped back ten steps, and from that dis- 
tance fixed his subject; then he walked back 
again, and, by throwing vigorously his hands 
forward and backward, he thus transmitted his 
electricity to his subject. These means he re- 
peated several times, till fifteen minutes had 
elapsed. 

Now he placed his thumb between the subject’s 
two eyes, pressed hard, and called out: “Open 
your eyes !” At once the young man’s lids 
opened. Then Randolph exclaimed : “Shut 
your eyes!” But the subject was unable to exe- 
t93 


SweetbMef< 


cute the request. This was the test that the 
young man was mesmerized. His eyes were 
rigid, and the lids were immovable. It seemed 
all life had flown from out his eyes. “Up!’’ 
Randolph shouted. The subject obeyed. He 
was fully under Randolph’s control. 

At this stage of the proceedings the musician- 
poet felt ready to prove to the guests his power ; 
hence he had his subject go into the other parlor. 
There Randolph made his subject go through 
several strange performances. 

After going through the usual simple demon- 
strations of a mesmeristic seance, such as giving 
the subject a glass of cold water and telling him 
it is fire, or vinegar, and at which the subject 
throws the glass away with pain expressed in his 
features — and others, some of the young ladies 
expressed the opinion that the subject was sim- 
ply acting — and was not mesmerized. To this 
Randolph smiled, and continued with more con- 
vincing demonstrations. 

He told the subject that he was on a scull-boat 
— was racing for the regatta-prize, and that he 
must win. At once, the subject fell to the floor, 
and assumed the position of a rower. He 
swayed his arms as if he had oars in his hands — 
his knees went up and down, rapidly. Now and 

m 


SweetbMe^ 


then he would turn his head around to see if his 
competitors were catching up with him. His 
face grew red ; beads of perspiration rolled down 
his forehead and cheeks. He was all animation. 
The people in the room were not there. He 
was in a scull-boat and rowing to win the race. 

‘‘Now if one of the skeptical young ladies will 

touch Mr. H 's forehead, she will testify to the 

others that Mr. H is perspiring — and all of 

you know that perspiration is the effect of power- 
ful exertion.” 

A young lady walked up, and was aware that 
the subject’s forehead was bathed in profuse 
perspiration. Randolph’s prestige was waxing. 
He was applauded. 

Then he made him go on a hunt. The sub- 
ject acted as if he had a shot-gun in his hand. 
Then Randolph imitated the report of a gun. At 
once, the subject fell down, as if he had been 
shot. 

“You see, now — he is perfectly rigid, I shall 
awake him.” 

But it was difficult for Randolph; for it is 
dangerous to suggest death to a subject. It 
took him fully two minutes to bring him to. 

After that evening’s entertainment Randolph 


m 


Sweetbficf^ 


was the talk of the hotel ; and every other night 
he was asked to mesmerize a new young man. 

He had his subject under such control, that 
while at table, his mere looking at his subject 
(he was seated five tables away from Randolph), 
made the subject turn around. Several times 
Randolph's power forced the subject to stand up, 
and walk over to Randolph, while he stared in 
his face. Such evidence banished all skepticism 
from the hotel guests' minds. 


i96 


CHAP TER THE TENTH s 


Love is Prejudiced in Regard to the Family -Sweet- 
brier Confesses her Love, Just as Randolph’s Mind 
is Aware that a Union with Her Would Not Suit 
His Tastes. 





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Sweetbner* 


CHAPTER X. 

Love is Prejudiced in Regard to the Family — Sweet- 
brier Confesses her Love, just as Randolph’s Mind 
is Aware that a Union with her would not Suit 
his Tastes. 

Love has as many moods as the seasons. 
Have not poets and authors seemingly analyzed 
lovers moods to their very depths? Through all 
the eons of man’s history, love’s influence has 
wrought everything. From the cradle of liter- 
ature love has been the motive of its stories. It 
is strange that the modern generation has not 
tired of reading about the loves of its Maries, 
Nellies, its Georges and its Charlies. In spite 
of the ever-repeated subject, the world is still 
willing to peruse the adventures in somebody’s 
course of love, that never runs smoothly. 

The simple reason that the world will lend an 
ear to the trials in the life of a lover, lies in the 
prosaic fact, that each of us is born with the in- 
separable instinct that draws the sexes towards 
one and the other. 


t99 


SweetbMef< 


Curiosity incites readers to find out how an^ 
other had loved; to be interested in the experi- 
ences others had; and, perhaps, to laugh at the 
silly ways fate used, to bring two hearts, per- 
fectly strange to either, together. 

Randolph and Nattie were standing in front of 
the summer-house at the edge of the bluff. 

It was dusk. The dreamy hour of the day re- 
spired peacefulness. Stray rosy clouds still hung 
over the far east. Now and then a voice rose 
from down the river. 

Some of the guests were grouped on the veran- 
dah; but they could not distinguish faces way 
over near the summer-house. 

Randolph held Nattie close to him — in fact, he 
embraced her. 

In the twilight, he gazed upon her face. He 
was aware that there was a change in her ex- 
pression, not seen before, or having escaped his 
scrutiny at other moments. 

Nattie’s beauty consisted in a delicateness of 
outline, in a breath of pink suffusing her face — 
in a prettiness of expression. But that night, 
Randolph observed that an angelic serenity lay 
upon her eyes; her lips seemed smiling faintly, 
as though she heard spirits singing in the skies. 
Even her fine-cut nose seemed moulded anew — 
200 


Sweetbrier* 


that irom some unseen censer rare perfumes in- 
haled. 

Was it magic that had changed her so? Was 
it love that had softened every line in her face? 

Randolph was surprised. He drew her slender 
body nearer to his side. He kissed her long. 
Her lips clove to his. She had surrendered 
utterly to him. 

They talked of everyday matters. Nattie was 
not poetic in her expressions. Randolph was 
imbibing wine that would purl fresh in his future 
lays. 

What is poetry, you ask? It is the recollec- 
tion of a sweet day, a perfect love hour. While 
talking with the loved one, poetry lies nestling in 
cither’s bosom, but the plenitude of bliss forbids 
acknowledgment of poetic sensations. Is it not 
like the sumptuousness of early autumn? All 
is glowing; but nature is quiet, and seems con- 
tent at the fullness of her happiness. 

Nattie must have felt a supreme moment of 
utter contentment, when she rested in Randolph’s 
arms, and while her lips were momentarily 
thrilled with the pressure of his on them. She 
must have dreamed exquisite dreams, that such a 
beatitude irradiated from her spiritualized fea- 
tures. A transfiguration was taking place. 
20t 


Sweetferief< 


Was she confident that he would make her his 
through life ; was she certain that he would pro- 
pose to her before the moon would rise? 

Oh ! she nor knew, nor dreamed that Randolph 
was questioning to himself the same supreme 
question; she could not have been aware that 
he had loved before, and that his first love had 
been haunting him from year to year. 

Now the evening planet grew brighter, and a 
timid star heralded in the night. 

Randolph and Nattie returned to the hotel. 

The next morning Randolph began musing on 
marriage. 

Here was a young girl that had more than 
;shown her affection for him. Undoubtedly, were 
he to propose, her answer would be in the 
affirmative. His path was flowery. No nettles 
lurking there. No pools to traverse. 

A phoebe that was carrying food to her young 
flew above his head, and settled back of a 
pillar of the verandah. 

The sight pictured to him a good girl who 
would promise a wise wife. 

Indeed, she was merely a country-bred girl, 
who had not much knowledge of city life. 
However, her manners were charming, and her 
prettiness would cover many a committal of awk- 
202 


Sweetbrier* 


wardness in a drawing-room. On the other 
hand, she was the daughter of a wealthy hotel 
proprietor, and financial happiness was therefore 
insured. 

But just here was the rub. Her father and 
mother, both estimable people in their way, were 
the obstacles to his decision. He imaged up Mr. 
Briggs, a lank, awkward, brawny, unlettered 
farmer ; then his wife gleamed alongside of him ; 
she was not very prepossessing, having lost an 
eye in some accident a few years ago. He had 
not seen much of her, and he was therefore unac- 
quainted with her temper. She was short, and as 
to her manners, it seemed to him that she failed 
to possess the bearing of one who would figure 
in a drawing-room. 

Then he thought of the salutation he had to 
press upon the lips of his prospective father-in- 
law. His bristly beard; his callous cheek; his 
weather-hardened lips — all were not inspiring for 
osculatory purposes. 

And as to paying his respects to the mother — 
that eye, — that eye was so obtrusive to any of 
the endearments he would be obliged to show 
her, when united to Nattie, that he confessed to 
himself absolute inability to do so. 


203 


Sweetbrier* 


Again the phoebe flew above his head; this 
time with an empty beak. 

Randolph gazed at the flying bird. 

It seemed fair to have a loving wife; but the 
family he was to enter in seemed like an ava- 
lanche of impossibilities which he could not well 
endure. 

The phoebe had no family to think of — and 
Randolph concluded his musings with the as- 
sured feeling that Nattie was pretty, and loving, 
and so forth, but that her parents were not attrac- 
tive enough for him as a father-in-law and a 
mother-in-law. 

That morning he continued composing. Once 
in a while, Nattie appeared on the verandah, as 
she used to, that first fair month in June, when 
the phoebe sang more sweetly, and Nattie talked 
lovingly to him. 

When leaving, he would follow her saintly 
form, and decide that she Was sweet to be his 
wife — ^but, as soon, Mr. Briggs and his dis- 
figured counterpart would bob up before his 
dream-gaze — and their hardened farmer-faces 
disillusioned Randolph to such a degree, that he 
stood up involuntarily and walked to the rose- 
hedge, and sniffed at a blossom, so as to obliter- 
ate the vision he had. 

204 


Sweetbficf. 


Thus passed the end of August. 

Randolph had had many walks with Miss 
Blonde, and frequent outings with Miss Eaton 
and the Lemuels. 

On the first of September, Miss Blonde^ her 
sisters, her brother and her mother left for the 
city. Other guests had departed as well ; so that 
the hotel seemed more like a large boarding- 
house. 

The Reverend was still a guest. 

One evening, after Randolph had come home 
from a swim down the river, he was surprised 
to find Nattie almost shivering in the hallway ; 
her face was pale, and her gaze was frightened. 

'‘What is the matter, Sweetbrier?” he ques- 
tioned anxiously. 

“Oh, that Reverend is after me. He^s been 
chasing me all over the parlors; and no one is 
downstairs. Keep near me, and protect me,’^ 
she said excitedly. 

“But how dare he do that, Nattie ! Now don't 
be afraid; Fm here!" said Randolph, trying to 
console the shivering sweetbrier bud. 

They had gone into the adjoining parlor, and" 
were standing against the piano. A few mo- 
ments later, the Reverend came in by the side 
door, and, thinking he was alone, was about to* 
205 


Sweetbrier* 


run up to Nattie, prepared to throw his arms 
around her. No sooner was he aware that Ran- 
dolph was present, than he retreated a step, and 
said: 

‘‘Oh, are you here, Mr. Shendon? Isn’t Miss 
Briggs beautiful? Why, let me see, Nattie, 
what a pretty breast-pin you have !” 

Before the Reverend could extend his arm to 
do the act he had proposed to himself, Randolph 
quickly motioned in front of Nattie, and said: 

“Oh, Miss Briggs, look at that cloud ; it seems 
a thunder-storm is coming. Why, Reverend, I 
did not see you this morning!” 

“I was out riding with Miss Briggs. Oh, it 
is so sweet to be in nature with a pretty girl. 
Come, Nattie, we’ll take a walk.” 

At this, Nattie clung to Randolph. She was 
shivering like a reed whose roots are shaken by 
the strong river-current. 

“No, not to-night!” Nattie answered, stam- 
mering. 

“Reverend, it is no use; Miss Briggs will go 
walking with me,” Randolph interposed, and his 
voice was somewhat irritated and determined. 

All this time Randolph defended Nattie dexter- 
ously; she caught hold of his arm, and avoided 
the shifts of the Reverend’s aggressions. 

206 


Swectbficf. 


At last, the Reverend discovering that he was 
superseded by Randolph, left the parlor. 

“Why, Nattie, what is the matter with the 
Reverend to-day ?’' 

“Oh! I’ll tell you what happened this morn- 
ing. I accompanied him horseback-riding. 
Near the Buttermilk falls we rested. Under an 
oak I sat down, while the Reverend was stand- 
ing. All at once he said that it would be nice to 
steal a kiss. Then he came over to me — and he 
bent over me. I quickly got up and ran around 
the tree. He followed. I screamed. Then I 
told him that if he kissed me, I would expose him 
to the guests when we got home. He stopped his 
queer acts then. All the way home he tried 
to flatter me ; and once he said that I would make 
a good wife to him. This afternoon he tried to 
kiss me — and I’ve been getting out of his way 
as best I could. I thank you that you showed 
him that I have a protector,” Nattie said, still 
trembling at the recollections of the adventurous 
day. 

“He must be out of his mind. But do not be 
afraid when I am near, Nattie!” and Randolph 
kissed his sweetheart right there. 

This was another proof that Nattie was really 
in love with Randolph. 

207 


Sweetbfief* 


He felt sorry now that he had gone so far with 
Nattie. He had won her heart, when he had de- 
termined that she would not be suitable as his 
wife. It was difficult to change affairs. Her 
heart would feel very sore, should she know of 
Randolph's thoughts. 

That week they took a long walk to the brook 
above the hill, where Miss Eaton lived. Under 
an oak, alongside the brook, they rested; Nattie 
lying full-length on her back in the soft grass; 
and Randolph laid his head on her body. 

‘‘Let us sleep awhile,” she said. 

'‘All right, Sweetbrier !” 

Paul and Virginia had not slept more sweetly 
than those two lovers that afternoon. 

On their way home, they picked many black- 
€yed Susans, that grew plentifully in the fields. 

Sweet walk, that showed the blossoming of 
love in two hearts. Sweeter is such true 
romance than the wild alarum of war, or the 
hoarse cries of the populace in honor of a hero 
returned from the fields of massacre and cold- 
blooded murder. Were romance more of a real- 
ity, better it would be for our nation, that seems 
as cold to love and sweet endearments as the edge 
of a sword, ready to strike on the head of a< 
defenceless alien. Cultivate the romantic, my 
2U6 



SHE WAS QUITE A PLAYER ON THE GUITAR. 



SweetbHer* 


countrymen! No nation has ever flourished in 
the divine arts where romance was not cherished. 
Gaze at our literature; nowhere do we find the 
magic of the songs of the Trouveres, nor the 
tenderness of the Minnesinger, nor the sweet- 
ness of the Elisabethan singers. We are harsh — 
brutal yet. My countrymen, keep romance in 
bloom I 

With Miss Eaton and the Misses Lemuel, Ran- 
dolph still was very companionable. 

It was noticeable that Miss Eaton was trying to 
enamor Randolph to her. 

She was quite a player on the guitar. Of 
afternoons, when he called, she would delight 
him with two fascinating Spanish songs ; in their 
tune there were intermingled the bravado of the 
toreador and the soft pleadings of the hidalgo- 
lover. She put all the different emotions into her 
playing. This pastime was most enjoyable; it 
was enhanced by the surroundings : a flower em- 
bowered verandah; her tall, reclining figure; 
her dark hair and eyes, her oriental beauty; and 
the homely songs of the birds that flitted through 
the trellis, or that were perching in some tall 
rose-bush, fifteen feet away. 

Both were sympathetic ; she had several 
talents; her youth inspired Randolph to some 


Sweetbfier* 


themes for songs — and she seemed drawn 
towards him through her musical soul and dra- 
matic nature. 

At times, she would be confidential and con- 
fess to her past life, however short that was — 
she was only seventeen. 

“Yes, Mr. Shendon, when I was fourteen, a 
young Polish nobleman proposed to me. I 
rather liked him, but mamma wouldn't hear about 
it. I was too young. The nobleman said he 
would wait till I were older. - Somehow, he had 
to leave the country — and since that time we've 
never heard from or of him," Miss Eaton re- 
marked. 

She was undoubtedly a precocious girl. Her 
physical development was marked; and the ease 
with which she did everything artistic, as well 
as her exceptional facility to recite poems, made 
her an unusual girl. 

At this stage of their acquaintance, both were 
like brother and sister. Randolph came and 
went, as if he was a member of the family. He 
was always welcome. 

The daughter of a retired gentleman and 
bon-viveiir , she had many of his traits. Her 
father had died when she still was in her swad- 
dling-clothes, and, being the only child, her 

210 


Sweetbwer* 


widowed mother more than lavished kindnesses 
and love upon her, so that she grew up the idol- 
ized divinity in the lonely country cottage. She 
deserved it, for she grew up in beauty, and her 
intellect was as beautiful as her figure. 

Why Randolph did not think of proposing to 
such a worthy girl seems strange. But to* 
some young men, falling in love is the pinnacle 
of their endeavors. To ask the ominous ques- 
tion is an endeavor they cannot surmount; or^ 
perhaps, their nature, like that of the immortal 
Goethe, precludes the usual climax to an inti- 
macy with a young girl. 

On one of their walks, she would fence with 
Randolph, she taking a stick, found along the 
brook, and Randolph using his cane. She had 
a slight knowledge of the art of fencing, and 
Randolph was a fair fencer, he having crossed 
foils with a fencing-master in Paris. 

They would be bantering together; then ex- 
changing dramatic reminiscences — discussing 
Shakespeare ; and; frequently, she would suggest 
a theme for a ballad for Randolph to write. 

One night, when he was hobnobbing at her 
house in the parlor, her mother having just en- 
never heard from or of him,” Miss Eaton re- 
marked : 

2n 


Sweetbfief< 


^‘Why, mamma, I think Mr. Shendon will send 
out cards very soon. Nattie is very sweet, but 1 
don’t think it is a good match. He’ll soon tire 
of a country girl.” 

Randolph felt a little embarrassed. 

‘'Well, she’s an heiress ; her father is very rich. 
That might be an inducement. But I don’t 
believe Mr. Shendon would be so unwise as to 
marry a mere village girl. Don’t you think I’m 
right?” she asked of Randolph. 

“Oh! I don’t know. Indeed, she is quite 
sweet ; but there’s her family. I guess I’ll marry 
an orphan some day !” he answered. 

He was slightly annoyed by their delicate in- 
quiries. He felt that his affair with Nattie 
would soon become the gossip of the village. 
He w^as surprised that no one at the hotel seemed 
to be the wiser. 

“Surely, you must be more careful when you 
make love to Nattie,” Miss Eaton said, smiling. 
“Why, some of the hotel guests have seen you of 
nights near the summer-house. They were 
anxious about you.” 

This was, indeed, a surprise to him. He had 
been found out at the hotel. Still, he did not 
mind it. 

“Is that so? I’ll have to have a scout next 

2n 


Swcctbttcf. 


time. Oh, I don’t mind gossip much. People 
will talk, you know!” 

have no fears about Mr. Shendon. He is 
too sensible to marry a village girl,” laughed 
Mrs. Eaton. 

Randolph was placing himself in a fiery abysm, 
out of whose depths it seemed difficult to climb. 
He had excited the interest of some of the hotel 
guests in his love episode; and, in Miss Eaton’s 
set, he had slightly aroused their expectations to 
see a love-match between himself and Miss 
Eaton. 

He had indeed cleverness in holding the keys 
to two hearts; that he had them in his keeping 
was assured. How could he doubt it when both 
hearts felt for him, and neither was sore when 
either knew that Randolph must be playing with 
both; it was either’s love for him that they re- 
spectively wished to see him happy with one of 
them at least. Involved state of affairs! 

One night, an hour after supper, Randolph and 
Nattie were walking out together. 

They had been dreaming in the rustic arbor for 
half an hour, and were now walking over 
some fields near the hotel towards her mother’s 
cottage. 

It was dark, and Randolph had his arm around 

2f3 


Sweetbrier. 


her while walking. Among a sundry conversa- 
tion, Nattie said: 

“My father is very generous to his daughters. 
When Sadie was married he gave her a fine 
grand — and, later, a carriage. He promised to 
give me a piano on my wedding day.” 

Randolph pricked his ears. She, the darling 
girl, was actually throwing out innuendoes to 
Randolph, who, she supposed, was willing to tie 
a lifelong knot with her. This was quite sud- 
den ; and, told in the dark, he surmised that she 
had chosen that time to confess her feelings so 
as to blush, unbeholden of Randolph's superscru- 
tinizing gaze. 

“Is that so, Nattie!” he remarked. 

“Oh ! and when she and her husband went to 
Chicago to live, he sent them a check. Papa is 
not so mean as he looks,” she said. 

Mr. Briggs had the reputation of being a 
close-fisted man of wealth; and when Randolph 
heard of this new trait in the farmer's character, 
i^- puzzled him a little. He might, after all, be 
more magnanimous to his children than he was 
with strangers, and the villagers. 

“That is indeed kind of him to do, Nattie,” he 
said. 

But Randolph made no efforts to mention how 
2M 


Sweetbnef. 


he would be delighted to be treated in that man- 
ner should he become his son-in-law. 

“Nattie, I have thought to see a change in your 
face when we are in the arbor together. Do I 
mesmerize you, perhaps?’' he asked. 

‘‘I think you do; for I feel so different then. 
I feel content and happy. I have never felt that 
way before,” she admitted. 

There was an ingenuous village girl. She was 
in love with Randolph, who at this point had 
tried to extinguish the flame of love he had felt 
for her. 

Fate is a fickle farce-maker, indeed. No 
sooner has she entangled two hearts in her soft, 
silken meshes, than she gives up her play lo her 
sterner sister. Thought, and by a sullen tap from 
Reason, the mesh is unwoven, and one heart flees 
from the other. 

By this time they were walking down the 
streets of the village; and, soon, they parted at 
the gate of the cottage. 

How should Randolph extricate himself from 
this unforeseen situation ? How should he break 
the spell he had been unconsciously weaving 
around Nattie? These were sore problems 
which he found difficult of solution. 


2f5 


Swcetbfief^ 


The summer was drawing to a close. Soon 
he would have to leave the country. 

Now that the guests were gradually returning 
to the city, the two lovers had more opportunity 
to be alone, or seek the arbor unseen. 

Instead of lessening the flames of affection, 
this rather tended to fan both hearts to intenser 
passion. 

“Oh, when youTe back in town, you’ll quite 
forget me; I know you will!” Nattie had scru- 
ples as to his love for her. 

“No, Sweetbrier, how could I? I’ll immor- 
talize you in some way. I’ll write a sweet song 
for you, and dedicate it to you. I’ll mail it to 
you.” 

“Oh I won’t that be nice. Now, I’ll expect it ; 
don’t forget !” 

Thus the two still were fond lovers when Sep- 
tember had left a week back of its onward course. 
Sweetbrier and the musician still cooed, and loved 
the bench in the darkness hid. 

But something unexpected happened during the 
next week. O complicated course of life ! 


216 



I 


CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH 


An Unexpected Occurrence Takes Place, which 
Parts the Two Lovers — Sweetbrier Remains in Hei 
Village, while Randolph Leaves for a New Life In 
the World at Large. 













Swcctbricf* 


CHAPTER XL 

An Unexpected Occurrence Takes Place, which Parts 
the Two Lovers — Sweetbrier Remains in her 
Village, while Randolph Leaves for a New Life in 
the World at Large. 

Most novelists tie a ribbon, pink and delicate, 
around the body of their story, thus presenting a 
nosegay to their readers. That is the conven- 
tional method. ’Tis well enough for tales that 
amuse the members of a nursery — or those novels 
that the masses enjoy. Their solicitude concern- 
ing the characters in a novel must be quieted — 
and the author accommodates them by ending his 
story with the union of the hero and heroine. 
The readers’ minds feel satisfied; they applaud 
the novelist’s servitude to convention; and thus 
both parties live happily till “death them doth 
part.” 

But life is a very jumble of divers situations, 
and not all terminate in contentment and happi- 
ness. The writer believes in giving truth to his 
readers — and nothing but the undiluted truth of 

2t9 


Sweetbrier. 


life, as all the great writers in the past have given 
to the world. 

Should my readers quibble with the writer on 
that score, he is not offended. To most of us, life 
is not a honey-vale in Canaan — rather, our exist- 
ence seems a series of Scyllas, that boil and sizzle 
for our discomfiture. And many will agree with 
him on that point. 

Now, September lay in its second week of 
fruitfulness. Hints of autumn dotted the trees 
— and along the country-roads the golden-rods 
shone rich-golden in the sheen of the glorious 
sun. In the woods, the vines showed rubies and 
topazes, scattered in amongst their leaves. In the 
orchards, a few relics of the August-fruits still 
hung on the boughs ; while, up the hillside, along 
some straggling fences, umbels of purple grapes 
watered the mouths of strollers up the mountain- 
side. The air was still hot; but, of nights, a chill- 
iness fell o’er the earth when on the verandahs ; 
but the hardy members of the guests sat with 
comparative comfort. September had reached 
the pinnacle of its course. 

Randolph had sent a manuscript of a symphony 
to a reputable publisher during July. He had 
been awaiting a reply all during August. None 
220 


Sweetbfieft 


'Came. On the third of September he had written 
a letter requesting a reason for such delay in an- 
swering. A few days after, he received a letter 
from the publisher; in it he informed Randolph 
that no symphony had ever reached him — he had 
asked his clerks, but no one had ever seen even 
the vestige of a manuscript. 

This was a stroke to Randolph. His sym- 
phony, to which he had devoted all his most fer- 
vent energy, had gone astray — lost forever! 

Randolph had been careless, as he had sent the 
original draught; he had no copy. Think of it! 
the work of four weeks irretrievably lost. Per- 
haps one of the clerks had taken it and kept it to 
change a bar here and there and to send it later 
under his signature to a publisher in some West- 
ern city ! 

The thought of it exacerbated Randolph. 

What could he do? Merely resign himself to 
his doom. 

He told Nattie the incident, and she expressed 
her regret. 

“Pm sorry for you ; but why did you send the 
original manuscript?’^ she asked. 

“Oh, I thought the original was sufficiently 
legible; but I never did imagine that the manu- 
script could have found such a lamentable fate. 
22i 


Sweetbficf4 


In future, Nattie, I’ll only send the copy to a 
publisher. It is a hard lesson for me.” 

*'Oh, don’t think of committing suicide! 
Come, let us walk to the glen !” she said, consol- 
ingly. 

But for the sympathy from his sweetheart, he 
would have been very gloomy those days. 

A layman cannot be sentient of the depths of 
feeling to which a musician is cast. 

To compose music, emotion is paramount. 
The heart and soul of the composer must pervade 
each theme. Hence unlimited feeling must per- 
vade the composer’s nature. 

Randolph had more feeling than the average in- 
dividual. 

The knowledge that his symphony had been 
lost, a symphony that spoke forth in melodious 
tones the experiences of an emotional soul — and 
the writing of which necessitated long study and 
an aptitude to originate new combinations 
of rhythms and tone-colors — meant to him more 
than had he been robbed of a vast sum of money. 

He had no copy. Indeed, some of the themes 
he could rewrite, but the harmonies, that he had 
received new and alive by sudden inspiration, 
those could never be rewritten. They were ut- 
terly melted away from his memory. Also, the 
222 


Sweetbrief* 


unity of the symphony he had forgotten, as well 
as some of the glorious climaxes that would send 
thrills through the listeners' hearts. 

He felt sorely depressed. However, the con- 
sciousness that his opera was progressing fairly 
well, inspired in him new hope — hope that this 
work of his would be received with more success. 

He worked away at his opera. He had written 
two acts, and was now on the third and last act. 

It is not alone ambition that kills the depress- 
ing monster, disappointment; but it is hope that 
leads the unsuccessful musician through the 
rocky realm of attainment. To that ever-inspir- 
ing angel the world owes the completion of many 
a masterpiece of the giant musicians. And were 
it not for her, the soul of Beethoven would have 
lost its hold upon the world; for he, the master- 
melodist, had surely a multitude of disappoint- 
ments to conquer during his life. 

Hope seems like a whisper from God, the uni- 
versal God, the God that helps the mighty souls 
to their attainments. Hope, the free, all-loving 
whisper, to those who love the beautiful ! 

It was after supper, when most of the guests 
were seated on the verandah, of a fine evening. 
Dusk was beginning to set in. The two lovers 
were talking together, when of a sudden their 
223 


SweetbMef< 


attention was drawn to a fiery ball in the northern 
skies. At once the_ heavens were ablaze. The 
ball, which was nothing more than a meteor, 
dashed down towards the horizon, and after a 
few seconds was lost to view; still, for a short 
time after its disappearance, the sky seemed as if 
on fire. 

"‘Oh, what is it Nattie exclaimed. 

“A meteor!’' Randolph said. “A rare occur- 
rence, indeed. And it is late for them to fall. 
I have seen some in the White Mountains, but 
that was in August. Was it not beautiful, 
Nattie?” 

“I’ve never seen one before. It fills me with 
uneasiness. Will it strike the earth, I wonder?” 

“I think this one will. It was so very large — 
why, larger than a full moon ; and the light it ir- 
radiated indicated that it was quite close to the 
earth. I suppose we shall hear of a block of 
stone being found some fifty miles away from 
here in a few days. See if I’m not right. Sweet- 
brier;” and both still riveted their gaze to the 
northern skies, as if the meteor was yet in the air. 

“That is a bad sign for me,” Randolph said, 
after a while. 

“How so?” asked Nattie. 

“Well, it portends a death. The meteor I saw 

* 224 


Sweetbrier* 


last foretold to me the death of my grandmother, 
I suppose I shall soon get news of a death in my 
family. I wonder who it will be !” 

“Oh, you are superstitious she exclaimed. 

“Well, one grows to be superstitious when 
strange signs have proved true repeatedly. Now, 
you will find out that I am right, in a few days,’"^ 
Randolph asserted. 

His prophecy was verified the next week. 

He received a dispatch in which his brother in-* 
formed him that his aunt had died a day ago, and 
he must be back in three days. 

This was another stroke. 

He had to leave, and bid farewell to Nattie 
so suddenly. His sweetheart would thus be 
snatched away from him ; and it was his duty to 
be present at the funeral of his aunt. 

Nattie had seen him when he had read the tele- 
gram. She noticed his expression; and was 
aware that he was startled. 

“Oh, Sweetbrier — now don’t tell anyone — that 
meteor was a sign, after all. My aunt died a day 
ago ; and I must be back by Friday.” 

“Why, that is strange, indeed,” she said. “I’ll 
feel awfully lonely, now that you’ll be away.” 
What an assemblage of the sweetest of love- 
memories gathered in her mind that moment! 
225 


Sweetbrier* 


Nattie’s heart felt a sudden pang. The news 
of his abrupt departure meant solitude to her — it 
meant the discontinuance of kisses and warm em- 
bracements. And how could he propose now, 
with a funeral on his mind? 

She went up to her room, and dreamed — and 
tears crept up to her eyes. 

Her golden dream was broken ! 

The next morning he was astonished to hear 
many of the guests expressing their sympathy — 
and they seemed to know all about his departure. 

He thought to keep the news away from the 
gossipy guests, and therefore had made Nattie his 
sole confidant, asking her not to circulate the 
cause of his leaving so suddenly. 

He was very much wrought up that morning, 
and, of course, was aware that it was Nattie's 
doing. 

First, the loss of his symphony, and, now, the 
unexpected ending of his love-affair with Nattie ; 
both began kindling a fire of disappointment in 
his mind. 

Before dinner, he entered the office, and there 
found Nattie. 

He lost control of his self-possession; ag- 
grieved to the quick, and hurt at Nattie’s having 
-disclosed his private affairs to the guests in gen- 
226 


Sweetbrier* 


eral, his voice grew to a high pitch, and a vehe- 
mence of temper was in it, so that when he ad- 
dressed her, both were startled at his harsh, com- 
manding tone. 

''Now, why did you tell them that I am to 
leave on Friday? It is none of their affair; and 
I told you not to tell anyone 

Was it a new demon in Randolphs voice? 
The musician, otherwise suave of speech, and 
sweet to all, of a sudden felt a new spirit in him. 

Nattie, the sweet rose-blossom, was before 
him. It seemed she was like a vulgar telltale, 
who tried to disgrace him — she was no longer the 
one he had been smothering with his deep-pressed 
kisses, and dreaming of, night and day. 

Randolph felt that he had spoken to her too 
harshly ; but he was wroth in a way : she had not 
heeded him when he had requested her to keep 
his affairs away from the guests. 

"Why, what do you mean by speaking to me in 
such a tone ? I am not your butler. You do not 
own me. I won^t speak to you any more !” said 
Nattie. 

Then she left the office. 

But Randolph was after her at once, and said to 
lier in the hall (there were no people present at 
the time, fortunately) : 

227 


Sweetbrier. 


“Oh, Nattie, I didn’t mean to offend you. I 
admit I am angered. But tell me, how did you 
come to tell them?” 

“Oh, I don’t see what difference it makes 
whether they know about it or not !” Nattie’s re- 
sentment had not subsided. 

“Well, then, forgive me my harsh voice. But, 
it made me wild when everybody seemed to know 
about my private affairs. You won’t do it again, 
will you ?” he pleaded. 

“I can’t forgive you. I feel hurt. You can’t 
love me, if you speak to me in such a command- 
ing voice. There, you can have the handker- 
chief-case back again. I don’t care to have it 
now.” 

With that she left him alone. 

After dinner he tried to soothe his temper by 
a smoke. 

Nattie did not appear. 

He went to his room, disconsolate. 

This rupture was sudden; but he hoped all 
would be well again as suddenly. 

When he had been in his room for a few min- 
utes, he was astonished to see the handkerchief- 
case lying on the bed. 

Surely, Nattie meant what she said. She must 


228 


Sweetbrien 


have thrown it through the transom, while he 
was at dinner. 

This was a sad state of affairs. He had only 
two days in which he could make up with her. 
He grew sadder and sadder ; still, he hoped for a 
reconcilement. 

When evening came, he saw her on the veran- 
dah. 

'‘Oh, won’t you forgive me ? I can’t stand this, 
Sweetbrier. I am to leave soon — and we can’t 
part like this.” 

'T never thought you could speak like that!’^ 
she said. 

"Nor I,” he admitted. "But all these sudden 
experiences put me out of spirits. How would 
you have acted, had you been through what I 
have been? I suppose you could not be very 
calm ; do you ?” 

"No — but you ought not to have spoken to me 
like that !” 

"Oh, I’ll never do it again ! Now, after supper 
we’ll have a farewell chat on the bench under 
the trees. Will you ?” 

"I might,” she answered. 

Nattie’s heart grew generous; and she must 
have thought of his former disappointment and a 
death heaped on it — all of which made her feel 
229 


Swectbrier. 


that she herself had been unkind to him by treat- 
ing him so unlovingly, due to her impulsiveness 
and imperiousness. 

Randolph was hopeful. 

After supper they met — and both sat down on 
the bench under the trees near to the house. 

When the darkness grew, Randolph drew her 
up close to him. She did not mutter, but nestled 
her head on his breast — ^and again they loved as 
before. 

^‘Now, to-morrow morning Til give you the 
case. You’ll keep it in memory of me, won’t 
you?” he asked. 

‘‘Yes. But you’ll forget me as soon as you’re 
back home?” she queried. 

“No, Sweetbrier. I shall never forget you.” 

What would have happened, had he never re- 
ceived that telegram ? Who knows ? 

They loved again. Reconcilement shone, like 
a moon at its plenitude, upon them — and the 
stars of their happiness sparkled as boonly as 
through the sweet summer-months. 

It was a little after eight when Nattie was 
obliged to enter the hotel, in order to attend to 
household affairs. 

Randolph hastily donned his cutaway, and put 


230 


Swcetbrier* 


his derby on. Five minutes later he was on his 
way to Miss Eaton's. 

'‘Why, Mr. Shendon, we are sorry you have 
met with such a loss. Surely, we shall miss you. 
But I hope you’ll come some other summer again. 
We’ve enjoyed your visits immensely,” said Mrs. 
Eaton, after he had made known the cause of his 
unexpected departure. “We hope to see you in 
the city, should we go there this winter. But I 
think we shall remain here this season.” 

He took opportunity by the forelock, hurried 
his call, and on his way home bade good-bye to 
Mr. Nambener, the artist. He deferred calling 
on the Lemuels till the following evening. 

It had been a puzzle to him, during all of the 
summer, that Mrs. Eaton had not invited him to 
some repast. Randolph had known them 
through a summer, three years back, and, as he 
had made a most favorable impression then, he 
thought that, perhaps, he would be treated like 
a good old friend. 

However, the expected invitation was never ex- 
tended. 

It would have been fair, indeed, could he have 
been their g^est some evening for supper. He 
would have felt as though he were Mr. de 
Camors, when he was the welcome one at the 

23f 


SweetbMCf< 


widow^s house, who had a daughter, too. Some- 
how, Randolph often imaged up M. de Camors to 
his mind, when he was sitting on the verandah 
with mother and daughter. The allusion was fit 
in his place, but for the difference that he was 
partial to Miss Eaton, whereas M. de Camors was 
enamored of the widow. 

Still, they treated him like a friend of the 
family; and should he have proposed to the 
daughter, no doubt, Mrs. Eaton would have given 
her away to Randolph with the greatest delight. 

Randolph had often planned to ask her; but 
he was still loving his love who had spurned him 
four years ago. 

Often, when they were walking up and down 
the trellised garden-walk, fragrant from roses 
and twenty other beautiful flowers, while they 
were discussing Romeo and Juliet, or bantering 
on constancy in lovers, he was about to ask her 
hand — but then, he saw how tall she was, and, 
too, how young she was — and, worst of all, his 
first love — though she had ignored him utterly 
during all these years and had never answered 
one of his letters — that first love would rise in his 
mind, and his love for her was still supreme. O 
young love, strong art thou, to last so long in the 
soul ! 


232 


SweetbMci** 

Mr. Nambener, the artist, had been most hos- 
pitable to him. Indeed, every week Randolph 
had visited there, and many a time he was their 
guest for supper, or dinner. 

At the hotel, that night, he met Nattie on the 
hall-stairs. It was late, and all had retired. 
They talked together awhile, Randolph kissing 
her at times, just as they had done that sweet 
and fragrant June, when they still were a little 
bashful of one another. There they loved, and 
kissing sweetly, bade each other a “good-night.’’ 

The next morning, Randolph returned the 
handkerchief-case to his Sweetbrier. 

Nattie was herself again. 

That afternoon they took their last walk to- 
gether: love was awing — ^happiness shed her 
myriad scented flowers on them — and regret 
would make Nattie sigh occasionally; while as- 
surance led Randolph to aver to his Sweetbrier 
that she would never fade in his soul. 

It was half-past eight when the stage was wait- 
ing for Randolph. 

Those were dear farewells that came from Nat- 
tie’s lips. 

Soon after, she waved her kerchief to Ran- 
dolph, as the stage went down the shady street. 

All was over. 


233 


Sweetbnef< 


The blossom of courtship lay upon the fresh 
field, ready to wilt. But Nattie picked it up, and 
kept it in her hand — then she pinned it on her 
bodice. It spent rare fragrance yet. 

An hour later, she pressed the withering blos- 
som in her dearest book. 

She would not throw it away. 

And then she sat on the edge of her bed, and 
cried, being lonely and regretful. 

Randolph enjoyed the drive down the valley 
to Port Jervis. 

He was leaving a paradise. Those sweet coo- 
ings were of the past. 

This drive was a sad one. He was drivings 
away from joyous youth, and blushing virgin- 
hood, towards sad days of mourning. 

All the summer-days of gaiety, love, kisses^, 
walks, adventures, were gone. 

He felt conscious that he had had an opportu- 
nity to call a dear soul his lifelong love — but fate 
had come in between, and had prevented his 
tying the love-knot. 

He stepped up into the cars. A whistle! In 
the rumble of the swiftly moving train, his mind 
soon forgot the incidents with Nattie, and he 
dreamed of the near future — of adventures be- 
yond his ken. 


234 


Sweetfefief. 


Such is life, though. Scarcely have we frol- 
icked in the gardens of delight, than we are 
driven into the forest of gloom. And though our 
soul still keeps the past in memory, the soul is 
buoyant and avid to experience new sensations, to 
love anew, and to be led by blindfolded Fate to 
scenes unknown. 


FINIS. 


235 


Verdicts of the Press 


“A TRIPLE FLIRTATION ” 

New York Herald. 

Mr. Elshemus has taken a bitter revenge by pub- 
lishing a book entitled *‘A Triple Flirtation^ Through 
these tales there runs a protest against most things ex- 
tant some of the literary masterpieces in this collec- 

tion. . . . 

The Worcester Spy. 

They teach good things where they have a moral. 

^ . . . Some of them are tarnished tragedies. 

Outlook. 

His book shall be of help towards greater social 

simplicity and sincerity. 

Fourth Estate. 

*‘A Triple Flirtation*' and eight other independent 

stories. — The stories are varied in character, entertain- 
ing and well written, and more enjoyable than many a 
longer novel. 

Chicago Tribune. 

There is originality in this description of man^s 

heartache. . . . 

Otnaha, The Bee. 

As an artist, Mr. Elshemus has the great ad- 
vantage of being able to illustrate his own works 

there is no reason why the present volume should not 

236 


Verdicts of the Pfess< 


meet with general favor on the part of the reading 
public. 

THB 

Hillsboro Dispatch. 

Once in a while we find some crisp observing writer 
who dissects with a scalpel both the publisher and the 
sucker. To do this properly he must not only know 
what he writes about but must do as a scholar and an 
artist. Must not be a cynic, but must be truthful and 
sincere and portray humanity as it is today, not what it 
was some other day. He must not be denunciatory and 
use epithets, but give facts. Moreover, he must not 
pose as a reformer. God forbid ! He must be inde- 
pendent, outspoken and generous. He must be an all- 
round man himself, educated in art, music, classics and 
all that go to make up the man, not only capable of 
judging but capable of expressing that judgment in fit- 
ting words. Such a man is L. M. Elshemus,^ of New 
York City, who to his other gifts adds that of extensive 
travel in the Old and New World. 

Mr. Elshemus is an artist of high merit — a musical 
composer, a poet and an author. He does nothing ill 
•and adorns everything he touches. He is not a special- 
ist; specialists are an abomination. Mr. Elshemus is a 
product of modern times and still young, with clear, 
steady brain, ambition, energy, health and nerve. He is 
not to be ‘'snuffed out by an article” like John Keats, 
.although he has much of the sensitive nature of the ill- 
starred English poet. 

I commend the work to our blase friends who wish 
for some real sensations, and whose jaded souls are 
worn out by “Richard Carvel” filled with plagiarisms, 
with impossible Janice Merediths and others of like 
long-drawn-out novels, which have no excuse for exis- 
tence. Mr. Elshemus’ work covers a wide field in New 
York City, music, art, plays, artists, models, etc. Life 
in country summer hotels — Europe, Algeria, charity, 
peculiar persons, a stroke of providence and a mass of 
•other things. The illustrations are from life. 


Verdicts of the Press* 


By all means try Elshemus, and you will know New 
York as it is, and you will agree with Mr. Elshemus,. 
although you could not perhaps describe things just as 
he does. 

or 

Louisville Courier Journal. 

....The subjects are wide and varied, and treated 
with a poet’s feeling. The twenty illustrations are also 
from Mr. Elshemus’ pencil. 

Buffalo News. 

Mr. Louis M. Elshemus has produced a book of verse 
that will rank away above very much that is put in 
covers. It is true poesy and the brain of a lover of the 
sweet and beautiful. 

Kansas Journal. 

One of our most prolific writers of verse seems 

to be Mr. Louis M. Elshemus The verses are inspired 

by poetic feeling. . . . 

J^A 'R'RAUI VES 

Hillsboro News-Herald. 

Mr. Elshemus is of the type of Keats or Shelley 

in the perfect use of rhythm in a luminous pure 
English. .. .‘Katake” has the oriental coloring of “Lalla 
Rookh.” “Lady Vere” and “Delorme” are realistic; the 
writer of this hopes to review them later on, and show 
that no finer word-grouping can be found in any pub- 
lished volume of our later poets. The man who wrote 
“Lady Vere,” “Delorme,” and Latake” need not fear 
any competition in that line. He is master of it. .. .So, 
in concluding, I can only say that those who read this 
latest work on the poetical horizon will agree that a 
newer and more healthful tone has taken the place af 

238 


Verdicts of the Press* 


prevailing characteristics. The reaction, if any is 
needed, will turn in the direction towards which Elshe- 
mus has first pointed the way. — C. H. C. 

New York Sun. 

The muse of Mr. Elshemus inspires him almost 

exclusively to thoughts of love; his song is one long, 
passionate plea for freedom from the trammels and con- 
ventionalities of these loveless, modern days of ours, a 
protest against the fickleness and mercenary spirit of 
the women of our time. . . .The poetry of Mr. Elshemus 
is marked by its extreme lucidity. 

Buffalo Evening News. 

They contain excellent conceptions and musical. 

and pleasant lines. 

Boston Congregationalist. 

They are serious and dignified in style, with many 
fine lines. The shorter poems are transcriptions of 
moods and impressions from nature. 


Louisville Courier Journal. 

Mr. Elshemus’ work is distinguished by an un- 
usual vigor. . . . 

The Esoteric. 

This is a work of 126 pages, composed chiefly of a 
dramatic poem setting forth the spirits of the times, 
both good and bad, and of how, in some instances, 
they have progressed to their present state of manifesta- 
tion in man.... The author displays poetic ability, and 
the portrayal of the gradual development in the race of 
the spirit of greed, is suggestive of how little beginnings 
grow and mature. In a new and striking way he pre- 
sents to the mind of the reader the various thought- 
powers at work in the mind-currents of the people. 

239 



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